Big Mama Hollers

Picking Flowers For Mom

2012-01-28T06:45:00.004-05:00

What turns people into criminals? In the longstanding debate over nature vs. nurture, new research published in the journal Criminology suggests that genes play a key role in determining who leads a life of crime and who stays on the straight and narrow.

The research, conducted by University of Texas at Dallas criminologist J.C. Barnes and colleagues, analyzed the genetic and environmental influences on criminal traits of 4,000 people. The researchers discovered a strong link between genes and criminality.

"If we're showing that genes have an overwhelming influence on who gets put onto the life-course persistent pathway, then that would suggest we need to know which genes are involved and, at the same time, how they're interacting with the environment, so we can tailor interventions," Dr. Barnes said.

One of my teenagers needed me yesterday afternoon, knowing he was unable to complete the school day, he had a teacher call me and avert a problem. He desperately needed Mommy Time, at least that's what we call it. He sat at the kitchen table and poured out his deep, inner thoughts to me. Yeah, a teenage boy. I sat and listened, he ended it later by crying over Grandpa, a "Why did he have to leave us?"

This son is part of a sibling group that has had many brushes with the law. This article caught my eye regarding genes and criminal behavior, and I'd been thinking about it all day long as I went about my business.

This particular son has greatly improved over the years, he participates in therapy, sees both a psychologist and a psychiatrist, he's been very challenging to raise, but has a completely likeable inner core. He's very popular everywhere he goes.

I've always known my life choice, my calling, in raising older sibling groups wouldn't be easy. I'm a work horse, I can do this...until there's family safety that has been totally and dangerously compromised. This kid would never hurt me, this I know, even in his darkest, angriest moments, and there've been plenty.

One of his older brothers made me uneasy, we had many nights when even the butter knives, hammers, and screw drivers would be taken out of the house by me and hid in the woods. Another older brother of his was easy to raise, one sister was a mess, the other wasn't so.

"So our sibling group was normal but just kinda messed up? he questioned me yesterday, knowing there weren't serious mental health issues, behavior concerns out the wazoo certainly, but, hey, that's fixable, right? "Were any other groups like us? He then verbally named every older kid and questioned their overall back story.

I absolutely totally understand their trauma, we discussed this for about an hour yesterday, he knows I get it. He knows I love him. Since he realized it wasn't me he should be angry about, he switched gears and started questioning me about my own mortality. "Do you still go see your doctor? Will your heart hold out? If I lost you, I'd die," he wailed, thinking about Grandpa.

Irony again, as he often used to blame me for a great deal of unrelated issues.

Again, I get it. I know he's confused. If I struggle emotionally with the unfairness of life, how much so for the kids?

I'd spent the morning hauling in groceries, there's no other appropriate word for the amount consumed around here each day. It is a haul. Blasting praise and worship music through my headphones, scrubbing out my brain from negative emotions and fears and stressors, I planted 8 flats of 72 cells each containing four varieties of tomatoes, four of bell peppers, jalapenos, acongaguas, and Italian eggplants (Blanca Rosa), all heirlooms, one flat of lavender, and I barely even made a dent in the amount of seeds I have sorted by planting date in drawers.

"By date?" JoJo hollered in disbelief yesterday evening after school. "You're such a nerd. Who even keeps planting dates in their head?"

He walked away chuckling, headed to the X Box 360 that Travis had blessed us with that has served to greatly calm his emotions surprisingly, only to come back and tell me that the world is completely and neatly divided up by nerds like me, athletes like his own sibling group, and then the artistic, musical folks like Lily. "Man, can that girl sing, or what?" he asked in admiration, having been Lily's classmate since Pre-K, her brother for 11 years of their lives. They are both 14 years old now, both in ninth grade at the high school.

Back then JoJo hadn't lived here that long, Lily was born here, and her self-confidence made JoJo cling to her emotionally. Grandpa used to be the one who'd drive to Pre-K and pick them up each afternoon as I still worked in the school system back then. The Pre-K photographer had even photographed them sweetly together, likely knowing it'd capture my heart and make me wanna buy it. Well, duh.

It's time to sow cole crops outside, Hazel yanked daffodils up out of her acreage and brought them in to Sarah, informing her with utmost importance, "Lily does this for Bita! I want to pick flowers for my mom too." When Sarah was Hazel's age we used to tell each other, "Let's go watch the garden grow," an activity in which we'd stare in admiration at the garden beds and anticipate the harvest. An intentional, thoughtful, mindful activity practiced throughout her childhood that I know has had a profound, very positive affect on her. How could it not?

Now an educated Foodie, a nerd, an accountant for Pete's Sake thus making her an A+ nerdite according to JoJo's assessment, which reminds me that Monday is the time to sign up for Spring soccer already.

2012-01-27T06:42:00.003-05:00

"My relief at it all even makes me feel guilty," my Methodist Preacher Kid's inner voice seeped out to Dr Mandy.

"Who wouldn't feel relief to now feel safe?" she countered. Relief is normal? Hey, who knew?

I always have processed my emotions rapidly, even disappointments often quickly fizzle away , evaporating in the exhaust smoke as I'm already gone, as my fast paced mind moves on, diving into projects and things I like to do, never bored, usually engrossed in something.

The elementary school principal, the one who'd had to clear her entire schedule during one difficult year with The One Who Must Control Everything, having to try and monitor, manage and dispel negative, disruptive, and sometimes dangerous behaviors, pointed out to me yesterday that when kids are in non-family placements, they very often will do much better.

Dr. Mandy agreed, "Yes, because then the normal expectations of love, courtesy, empathy, caring, and other thorny emotions are not there anymore. Behaviors that certain folks can not be expected to have, nor to display." Taking those expectations off the table changes everything.

Our principal has a severely emotionally disturbed relative and truly understands the difficulties for other family members and their likelihood of being targeted, emotionally abused, physically lashed out at, or otherwise resented. This same principal took notes, attended RBWO meetings, and assisted me in a thousand ways over the years with some supremely challenging children.

It's been such a long difficult road and has included about ten different severely diagnosed kids over a 17 year period of unrelenting stress and challenges.

No wonder I'm now looking at the breaks in the clouds with some suspicion still and can be attributed both to the traumas I've endured and the full-blown PTSD. Duh. Cortisol and adrenaline having run amuck within me for way too long, damaging the internal organs, most notably my heart.

My darling son-in-law Preston eventually bolted down all the heating vents in each bedroom, as they were pulled up and routinely stuffed with trash, treasures, hoards, or urine. The wall intake vents? Not so fortunate. My February retirement check will go towards finally replacing each one, along with checks for $60 each to Chuy and Mayra for their Lifetime Sports classes, and a deposit upon the room where the rehearsal dinner will be held for Daniel's wedding.

I flat out emptied my wallet for this month yesterday at Lowe's for two more gallons of paint, more wall plaster and patches, plus incidentals designed to improve the quality of our life now. It makes me happy to work on positive endeavors. The hooks I'd hung on the back of bedroom doors and closet doors for their belts, accessories, towels or whatever? Routinely destroyed. Will I ever learn?

I wanna quote part of an email I'd received yesterday from another trauma mama, "Gutted the kitchen and rebuilt it, gutted a bathroom to the studs after years of intentional water damage, took the dining room, living room, mud room and several bedrooms totally apart and patched, mudded, sanded, stained, painted...replaced half the doors..the rest are next along with carpet in my room and wallpaper in a bathroom that the little boys removed. Getting there."

She was once a professional, out in the work world, surrounded by other educated parents whose children did not rage and destroy. Like me, she now is stunned and half shattered, but working on her own emotional recovery. Who'd a thunk it? It's not like we chose abusive men to have in our lives. We chose to try and help children, to share our blessings...

17 years of me being emotionally and, sometimes, physically battered. 17 long years in which I did find time to smile and be happy - although folks would then make me pay for daring to be vulnerable.

It will not take me 17 years to heal.

I won't necessarily morph into some social butterfly, I'll likely remain a hermit to a large degree, but I won't twitch and recoil, dive for cover at the sound of a ringing phone that usually meant another problem. Hopefully I'll be able to digest my food properly, sleep at nights, and learn to trust and enjoy life again. I won't cringe in abject terror.

The 12 kids still at home have their own sets of issues, but these are issues that, with therapy and good choices, will heal to some extent.

It is my prayer of course.

Where's my paint can?

Switch Plates

2012-01-26T06:54:00.003-05:00

Even the wall switch plates have taken a beating. It's only been about 25% of my children who've been extremely destructive, the vandalism shocking, but this is the first time in a long time that what I'm repairing will stay repaired. It had been very disheartening over the years to carefully fix something, while feeling someone else's eyes boring a blazing hole in my back, knowing the delight they were imagining in again destroying something, putting twisted action to their sad/mad/bad feelings, it was almost a physical release for them.

It stressed me out terribly.

There'd be nothing I could do about it. No consequence that wouldn't lead to another act of vandalism. I learned this the hard way. They wanted to 'win' the battle. There's no way I could ever do so in my own house, because the stakes were higher in their own minds. This was addressed in therapies and therapeutic resources/interventions/placements, etc., but to no avail.

I literally and physically represented all that they felt was wrong with their life. I represented the reason they were not with their birth parents - who they usually didn't even remember. Don't confuse them with the facts.

That this was only a minority percentage of the population here has been my saving grace, but the constant onslaught has certainly taken its toll on everyone in our family.

Feces smearing, bed wetting, shocking acts of aggression, constant damages, extreme defiance, argumentative behaviors, unrelenting oppositionalism, simmering hatred and explosive rages, physical attacks, thefts, and malicious lies have all conspired to now leave me slumping here at home in very extreme relief, but also still pushing forward, trying to power my way back into the Land of the Living.

As I slowly, happily repainted a bedroom, patching every hole, dent and flaw, I noticed the window trim that was different as I'd paid a repair person about two thousand dollars several years ago to replace windows, we'd had so many of them broken out by kids who knew that would make me sad. Well, duh.

I paid $4,000 during the month Grandpa died to gut a bathroom that had been destroyed, several thousand more on another bathroom. Miss Cissy had redone two other bathrooms for me as a gift maybe five years ago. I have some more big ticket repair jobs pending, but am saving up slowly for them, it's not a whip out the credit card moment, because I do NOT want to be in debt. I'd rather live with the disrepair.

I'm budgeting about $200 monthly for Lowe's as I repaint, caulk, patch, replace, and repair slowly all the intensively shocking damages. Jack replaced a doorknob for me yesterday, he's only 11, but he knows how to do it, as nearly every single door in this house has been compromised over the years. We've even had to replace door frames. Banisters have come down in pieces and closet rods broken on the floor, kids angrily staring at my own shock, daring me to react.

I could never afford to react, I didn't have that luxury. I could only repair, knowing it'd happen again and again and again. Anyone wonder why those same now mostly grown kids are not allowed here? I'm not even discussing the even more serious issues. I'd advise others to steer clear as well for their own personal safety. Please trust me on this.

For the fourth Wednesday night in a row, I've made it to church services. This feels good. I'd made a New Years resolution to do so, it's more important to me than errands, tasks, chores, and other to do list items that stress me out. I need the mid-week dose of encouragement.

I cleaned hard all day yesterday, 8-3, nonstop, finally sitting down to eat a sandwich when Tabby and Nando came home from school, but this is a big house, and I was very positively energized, knowing it won't be undone on purpose by severely disturbed kids, who know they can make me sad by simply kicking another hole in the wall.

A F%^& You moment that they really couldn't help. The level of disturbance was too severe to function normally. They'd thrived on that control issue, that ability to direct an adult's attention so strongly and negatively. They hated positive attention, would make me 'pay' for being nice, the very deep-seated self-loathing that we addressed constantly in therapy never healed. Some of them now on their own and not doing too great.

I had one gown kid charged while in jail for destruction of government property as he'd defaced and done his level best to destroy a jail cell. Yes, this is what I lived with for a long, long time, trying my best to provide love, nurturance, food and shelter.

That sentiment was echoed at a facility where the Director told me they'd finally just put wood up from the floor to the ceiling to protect the sheet rock. To protect the sheet rock? Eventually I gave up on the walls, spending all my time protecting human beings.

Child Welfare professionals need to understand the severity that can be evident in children. Most of middle America is clueless. I think I've mentioned recently that a worker had told me she spends more time talking families out of even trying with some kids they think they can adopt. I agree with the worker, knowing a disruption would be inevitable. Some kids will not ever function in a family environment where there are potential victims. It's a very sad fact. It is not the child's fault. It is nobody's fault, this is what mental illness looks like, and it doesn't just happen when they become adults, it's evident in childhood.

Yep, many of us live this way and have done so for years. Daniel used to be my glass pane replacement go to guy, but the big ticket replacement man had put in windows that didn't have panes, thus ensuring bigger repair costs. I should've caught that tactic, but I was then too busy putting out fires, literally and figuratively.

Today is Dr Mandy Day, I have grocery store and Lowes on my list, it's gonna be a stormy evening, we've had a great deal of rain lately, but our overall rain deficit remains. The weather's been warm and I have masses of daffodils in vases. Hyacinths are up and Nando'd picked the tiny wild crocus blooms as well.

Flattered By The Offer

2012-01-25T06:56:00.005-05:00

It did take me awhile to catch on to this one, as I didn't habitually search closets. Very troubled kids would dig holes in the Sheetrock in order to hide stuff, generally useless stuff like food that was in the pantry and could be had for the asking. It just never made any sense. Then they'd make the hole bigger to get to what they'd deposited.

Sometimes I'd find my kitchen knives, never any big ones as I'm not that stupid. I'll chop celery with a butter knife first.

I'd patch it up, or Chuy or Tony might do so for me, and voila, otra vez, mixing the two languages I've studied, I'd just have to do it again.

I should've bought stock in wall patch kits.

I've heard stories from other trauma drama parents about their kids peeing in these hidey holes, I sniffed cautiously yesterday and was rewarded with no urinary fragrance. Thank God for small favors. What idiot sniffs holes in the walls, besides dogs? Uh, that'd be this idiot, the one who hasn't brushed her hair in two days.

I painted, painted, and painted, as I'm liable to do each January, the temperatures outside rose into the 60s, but I valiantly forced myself to remain on task, opening windows as my reward, inhaling the very intoxicating scent of winter Daphne, I should've planted way more of that shrub.

I'd picked up Stephen Covey's 8th Habit audiobook at some yard sale months ago for just two quarters, downloaded it, and listened to it twice lately, trying to rebuild myself, my own character that's been routinely assassinated, maligned, disparaged, and abused by others.

But I'm gonna be OK. My Second Chapter's gonna need capitalization, I have horticultural dreams that'll consume my time and energy for the next five decades, I have very lovely grandchildren, as evidenced by Alexander and Ellie below, and so many of my grown children generously provide my entire social life. Deysi had texted me bedtime photos last night.

Deysi and Marcela's birth sister is Saray, not to be confused with Sarah, I'd been emailed that particular question recently. Sarah is 38, Deysi is 35, Cristy is 34, Saray is 33, Gina is 33, Marcela is 30, Yolie is 31, Sergi is 30, Jesse's fixing to be 30. Man, I have a lot of kids in their thirties. I'm really proud of them too.

The future Mrs. Bodie, Megan, and her soon to be husband, my darling Daniel, have already planned our next Braves game attendance. I've already lined up the babysitters and have installed a countdown app on my phone. I'm super dooper excited about it, especially that Daniel is marrying so well - something I always expected of him. Duh.

I'm also very happy about my other married son and his beautiful spouse, Lena, that's exactly what I want for my sons. I don't have any weird Mama attachment, no driving manipulative competition for their attention, I'll take what they give me. That said, I miss Jesse terribly, he's soooo far away. I miss Sergi too, married or not, I've got some excellent grown sons. Edgar's far away at the moment also. Big Joe is in town and gainfully employed. You know I like that aspect of his life. Fabian is a work in progress, right? I hope.

Guys - All I want it your own happiness and satisfaction for what you want, not my dreams and goals for you, but your own.

Late in the night I watched a psychotherapist on TV answer a question I'd long pondered, "There's no compelling evidence that early childhood deprivation later leads to hoarding behaviors."

As children in the 1950s we didn't have a lot of stuff, neither did any of our friends, no one lived on credit, it was a cash only society in which few mothers went to work outside of the home. We frequented libraries, played in creeks and the woods, and were generally very happy. When my mom finally allowed Gary and I to ride out bikes to the library without parental supervision, we both thought we'd died and gone to Heaven. Me on my blue Murray with a large turquiose basket to carry home tons of books, it was hard to steer that sucker. Good practice for the 15 passenger van I didn't know I'd grow up to drive?

Now in the Digital Age, there's little need for stacks of CDs or even for piles of books - something I'm beginning to get used to very slowly.

In a house furnished with books and plants, I'm slowly eliminating the books, sending them to Goodwill, but not my gardening ones. No way. But really, why would I still need French Lit tomes that I'd studied in college? Spanish grammar yes, French Lit, no.

A local editor emailed me to see if I wanted to be featured in an upcoming gardening segment. I thought about it, very flattered certainly, but the reality of it would stress me out, something I'm trying to avoid. My gardens never look good enough for me, there are always weeds in areas, always a place that's either bare or over-planted, sometimes I'm so impressed with my own efforts that I sprain a muscle patting myself on my back, other times I wonder how I can even call myself a gardener. Or the hens would get out and make a mess, or areas would need mowing. Nah, I have enough self-imposed stress. but thank you for thinking about me.

I haven't even begun my indoor seedlings yet, I'm really behind on my own self-appointed tasks, but I'm also happy with all I've accomplished lately. By shutting down my laptop each morning, rarely distracted by anything other than the chores in front of me, not saddled by the behaviors of others that need a professional staff to maintain, I'm slowly working on all the deferred maintenance of the last two decades.

And dadgum if all my high schoolers weren't texting me as I painted, there are smears of paint on my otterbox. I have emails to answer and phone calls to return but my to do list takes priority this morning.

Continued Consumer Anarchy

2012-01-24T08:24:00.001-05:00

Sarah's blogging regularly nowadays, she'd told me about this some time back and I've been doing it and loving it.

Your Pie Lunch

2012-01-24T06:57:00.004-05:00

I've even ditched the oats in favor of a mongo bowl of oat bran, cinnamon, raisins, flax seed meal and walnuts, plus shredded coconut with rice milk. I ate the largest bowl ever yesterday morning with the sole purpose of simply tanking up, so as to eliminate the need to stop for lunch. I wanted to paint without taking food breaks that slow me down, time is limited.

"Wanna meet us for lunch?" Yolie unhelpfully tempted me. I was already so dang full, but I made an appearance, in a restaurant in which I was still too full of bran to eat, just because I could. I now have this much freedom. Daniel and Megan met us there as well, still ironing out their wedding details.

The schools don't call me to meet the deputies there and subdue a rager anymore, they don't call and ask me to take him/her home so they can teach without disruption. I can do laundry uninterrupted, poot around at the grocery store with time to think and plan, and I can catch up with my grown kids nowadays. Saray was texting me and Vanessa called with some good news about her living situation, but my friend, Janet, had the best news of all in that this cancer diagnosis is not as dire as it could have been, needing only radiation.

I'm loving this.

"Bita!" Mae and Marissa hollered excitedly when I walked in, money just can't buy that much love.

I should decidedly not ever be allowed to mess with Super Glue, at least this time my fingers didn't meld together, but one has a good coagulant coating that's gonna take some time to wear off. I've never had a mani/pedi in my life, sure not gonna start now, I don't even believe in nail polish, as the chemicals stink and are an environmental nightmare, so any pseudo ladylike appearance of my hands is not a priority, nor even a possibility.

Back in our Dark Ages the ownership of guitars by CW and Lily would have been challenged by The One Who Must Control Everything. "Why do they get birth mom presents?" she'd often scream, once having slung a broom at that birth mom's head, much to our collective shock. She'd also slugged my then eight year old grandson in the back of his head because she didn't want him on our computers.

Or when JoJo, Allen or Mayra would be taken places by their older siblings, she'd try and prevent the occurrence. "Why don't I get to go out with my older brothers?" she'd scream, not realizing they didn't have driver's licenses and even knowing they were both in lock down facilities at that very moment on assault charges. The accusation later became that I prevented her from going out with them. Like I couldn't have used a break?

No explanation ever sufficed, we always had to either give in, or risk the wrath which would involve deputies. Eventually I became very beat down, the kids as well always scattered and ran for cover, that was no way to live and it took a massive toll on us all.

It one thing to hurt me, I'll get over it, but DO NOT attack my children and grandchildren repeatedly and think it'll be hunky dory with me. I'm absolutely outraged, deeply saddened, and very conflicted in my innermost feelings. I'm dealing with it in therapy. Duh.

The wall that I was patching yesterday was injured by an older teenager who is very closed off emotionally, guarding his feelings as his entire sibling group has been viciously and very dangerously angry. That he's confined his own anger to the walls is not an anathema to me, I can deal with this, no human being is getting hurt. I have discussed with him the fact that I believe he needs to speak with a professional. He listened to me, but was noncommittal.

"Sweetheart," I beseeched him, knowing he places a high value on his own impressive intelligence, "I'm smart as crap, but I know I need a neutral party with which to discuss our abnormal events." He didn't budge, surely thinking, 'If you're so smart, how'd you end up like this?' A feeling I often contemplate as I paint, weed, clean, or participate in other robotic activities.

Two other brothers of another sibling group still live with me, now 16 and almost 18, the youngest siblings in a group that included two other nearly sociopathic individuals, one now in prison, I'm ignorant as to the whereabouts of the other, sadly I'm also both relieved and disinterested, in that I'd been seriously robbed blind for over a decade, lied about, and listened to false accusations about everyone one else they'd ever come in contact with in daily life.

I'm out, color me grateful.

I'm consciously aware of the fact that I'm now changing everything, wanting to overcome my own severe trauma, as well as that of the teenagers still living here with me, I've even changed out wall switches and plug covers, painted so many walls, rid myself of so many horrific memories.

As I painted last night after supper, nearly every kid in the house was keeping me company, all of us in one room, good discussions going on, teasing and jokes. At eight I shut the paint can, sent kids to their showers or beds or just to their rooms to wind down, silence descended and by nine p.m. my house was completely silent.

Who knew it could be this nice?

Bygone Wild West Days

2012-01-23T06:45:00.005-05:00

Even in our Wild West need-the-deputies-days, even when windows were being broken, walls kicked in, appliances destroyed on purpose just to get a rise out of me, and larcenous folks stealing everything that wasn't nailed down, they never messed with my piles of paperwork, and never threw out receipts that I needed. An aside: they never threw out anything, preferring hoards that made me nutso, as I like long clean zen-like spaces. I want papers filed and clothes hung up. I'm funny like that.

The extremely disturbed ones liked smelly nests of trash, soiled clothing, and crapped-up food items surrounding them. Ultimately so very sad, a precursor of homelessness and a life of self-medication? I hope not, but I remain skeptical of much high-level functioning. Other parents have told me about the pervasive smell of urine, of half-filled soda bottles growing mold spores, and lipstick defaced walls from their own severely disturbed children.

I again painted all day long, the living room is completed, well except for an accent wall, and I finished the long hall off, painting it a steel grey-blue, easily covering unidentifiable stains.

Twice in one month I ordered Dominos, shocking the kids. I allowed each kid to order their own one topping pizza - 12 pizzas at six dollars each, their astonishment was comical, usually I make the 12 of them agree on ten pizzas, but this month we'd barely spent any of the gas money that I'd allocated in our budget, having hardly left the place all January, except for school and church...and the grocery store.

Grandma'd cooked an after church lunch for us all, and then picked up the pizzas after taking Jack to karate at her church, allowing me to remain at home with the other kids and to continue painting.

Nary a problem yesterday at all. A very decent Sunday afternoon, everyone doing something, no one fussing nor acting up. It is sooooo nice.

I'd talked to Dr Mandy about it, me feeling intensely guilty that there'd been so many dangerous years, me being hyper-vigilant 24-7, when kids attacked kids, when the rest of my kids were diving for cover so often, usually the violence would be directed at me, but collateral damage included everyone, especially in the emotional realm. Either they were preoccupied with losing me, the only one who has ever consistently fed, clothed, sheltered and nurtured them, or the spillover fears intruded into their thoughts, including their own very justified fears of the simmering, unpredictable rages.

"You tried hard for a very long time, "Dr. Mandy reassured me, using a white flag of surrender as an analogy that I've since been thinking about all week.

I shudder to remember the intense, irrational control issues that plagued us all regarding Sabrina's cheer leading events, soccer games, church activities, school days, and possessions where all the kids knew we bordered on dangerous explosions so often, if one violent kid wanted that which another kid had - or was as a person. Sabrina and Mayra's beauty was a trigger as well. Seriously.

I do feel guilty that my kids tiptoed around fearfully, I just can't shake that yet. That said, I now treasure the light-hearted atmosphere that we are all enjoying - the way it always should have been.

"Ow!" Allen exclaimed goofily this morning, as the van horn hurt his ears which sent Jack and JoJo into paroxysms of giggling.

Back then, they wouldn't have been allowed to laugh by The One Who Controlled Everything. She would've thought they were laughing at her and launched into a hitting and spitting rage in which folks would miss the bus. I was driving them to the bus stop this morning, down the long dirt driveway, to our mailbox on the dirt road, as it's drizzly, and my girls with their very carefully straightened hair requested my taxi services. Glad to oblige.

Speaking of straight hair, I'm very surprised to be found on Facebook by folks who've not seen me in decades - back then I had curly, very dark hair, and two other last names as I married twice. I've been using my maiden name for a very long time now, but no one knew me by that name initially as I began my public school career as Miz Brown, a name I'd kept after the divorce so Sarah and I would have the same last name.

Were it not for Sarah, spinsterhood would've been my preference. In the book I'm reading Maine Farm: A Year of Country Life, the author wrote of a woman who'd never married. Anita Harris who died at age 92 in 1971, donating her land to the state as a wildlife sanctuary, The Holbrook Island Sanctuary. 1200 acres from an early pioneer in the then cult-like status of vegetarianism. How cool is she?

A Wonderfully Uneventful Life

2012-01-22T11:40:00.003-05:00

Thunder, lightening and a tornado watch in January gave us nearly two inches of blessed rain. Wowza, I'll take it, I'm already pre-conditioned to dreading a repeat drought, it's been so prevalent for so dang long.

Daniel and Megan spent the afternoon with us, silently reminding me of the blessing he's been on my life for so long, I'm believing 2012 will be a wonderful year after so many decades of unrelenting stress. Daniel took Grandma to Peach Mac to get her an Ipad here at almost age 82, setting her up all afternoon.

Jack's back in his free twice a week karate class, Grandma's pastor offers these classes, but Jack was selected for leadership, thus nearly ensuring a free ride all the way to black belt. I sure hope so for him.

Check this out, I got nothing. No drama, no thoughtful pondering, nothing to report.

Gonna be a short post, we've been to both church and Sunday School, I'm gonna finish happily painting the living room walls. The view from my desk right now includes my guitar playing Dubs, the plate behind his head was artistically done by Marcela in 1989.

Sarah blogged.

Sabrina's A Driver

2012-01-21T11:46:00.003-05:00

Out the door again on a Saturday morning, crack of dawn, getting kids where they needed to be, Grandma babysitting the few at home, Sabrina got her driver's license, and now I'm waiting on Daniel and Megan to come by.

Because it's been too challenging to be able to leave my house for even a brief second, I'd not gotten around to changing the names on some social security cards for years, every time I filed taxes I was reminded, then it'd flit out of my over-taxed mind that was bound and determined to work hard on keeping everyone safe - an immense challenge for quite some time there. I just couldn't leave some raging kids unless Yolie and Chuck would be here, even then the ragers would amp it up so that I'd feel too uneasy to tend to other things that needed doing.

Nine and a half years of that kind of pressure accordingly is trauma-inducing. I'm not now celebrating by a cruise but rather by the onerous tasks I now feel good about completing. Nerd Girl, I know.

A couple of hours yesterday did the trick, under a deadline in that I knew she'd need a proper social security number today for her driver's appointment, sometimes the paperwork and the sitting and waiting all conspire to make me procrastinate.

I had eight errands yesterday, barely getting them done in time to dash home before the elementary school bus disgorged my two youngest sweethearts.

"Why are you on Prince Avenue?" Tony texted me from school, using the Google Latitude program that I also use to make sure I know where my teens are at all times. Turnabout. For me to be in town buffaloed him, I wasn't at a grocery store, the laundry room or my gardens.

A quiet Friday night with everyone behaving and keeping themselves occupied, this morning we also finished up the credit recovery courses...check completed on that task.

I got my elderly sewing machine repaired, tuned up, oiled, and raring to go, next project will be curtains in the living room. I've been HGTVing all sorts of ideas, now without ragers to tear 'em down as fast as I hang 'em, I'm feeling encouraged.

Could'Ve Been Worse

2012-01-20T06:36:00.004-05:00

A 7:45 a.m. 504 meeting to strategize about how best to get my silly, absolutely zero-impulse control JoJo through high school. Thank you, black coffee, for jump starting my day that has too many things to get done it appears, as I glance at my calendar.

I'm supposed to meet up with Deysi and her kids, but that may be contingent upon the paperwork-shuffling process I have ahead of me combined with three important errands.

I locked my own keys in my office last night. Had to kick in the door this morning, minimal damage, I can fix it with wood glue, repaint the side in one small area, and it'll be as good as new. I still haven't finished painting the living room, I have other chores demanding my time and attention.

"I'm craving red beans, corn and rice tonight," Jack had requested yesterday, Sabrina chiming in, "That's my favorite of all." I used to take some of it up to Miriam's work place, as it was her all-time number one dinner choice. Everyone chowed down happily, except the one who used it as a way to disrespect me once again.

Oh puh-leeze, I disengaged. I already know how this turns out...

--------------------

And the fun began.

I got up to the high school only to discover the meeting was about Allen. Before he joined us, two administrators came to the room to tell me Allen had just kicked a teacher. My heart sank.

My mind went blank. Allen wouldn't do that. I weakly repeated, "Allen?" in utter disbelief.

Both men were doing their best to not bust out laughing, the amount of effort it must've taken them was impressive, the rest of the office staff couldn't contain themselves, and I too eventually had to work hard to get serious.

Apparently Allen assumed that was his friend wearing blue jeans and the exact same jacket, same body build and hair color from behind, so Allen kicked him in the butt, demonstrating his own complete and genetic lack of zero impulse control.

The friend turned around and Allen got the shock of his life. It wasn't his friend, it was a new student teacher.

Oops.

Allen's gonna have a hard time living this down.

The newby went to the front office, "How do I write up a kid who kicked me in the butt?" Allen was accompanying him, wide-eyed, scared out of his wits.

Allen has a reputation for emotionally shutting down, not for physically lashing out. He's as quiet at school as he is loud at home.

The principal made Allen write a letter of apology, I made him deliver it verbally as well, just grateful that no assault charges were being filed, thus ruining Allen's extremely tenuous hold on a desire to finish high school.

That just sucked another hour out of my jam packed morning....but it could've been so much worse.

Tabby'd left her book bag outside, discarding it to jump on the trampoline instead of going in the house first, totally forgetting it before nightfall, our drought-stricken place had rain last night. Thankfully I keep spare book bags and her notebooks weren't wet.

And I have an unusual headache that won't make my other chore/errands/tasks any fun to endure.

Whole Grain Living

2012-01-19T06:13:00.004-05:00

I pulled the back door handle off the entire back door, rushing out to some meeting, oops, now how'm I gonna open the door?

Dumped an entire cup of coffee on my own bed, maybe I need to use the word entire less often, as I cope with clumsiness and way too much speed minus intentional movement?

Three Wednesday night church services in a row, that hasn't happened in many years. Sarah saves me a seat and brings me her peppermint tea bags so we can sip and learn from Pastor Tony, it's the ultimate in emotional luxury for me lately. She'd also brought by the Chocolate Death Vegan cake that's so amazing.

I'd eaten so much for supper that I d practically waddled into the church. Browning flour tortillas in a cast iron skillet, adding black beans and brown rice, pepper jack cheese, sea salt, sour cream and Fire Hot Pepper Sauce and salsa. It's time consuming to cook that many burritos for 12 kids, Grandma, Lily's friend, and I, but oh so worth it.

The most common refrain, "May I have another one?" I kept on churning 'em out, full kids are happy kids.

Tony'd turned 16 yesterday, outgrowing his immaturity slowly, either he's the sweetest, most helpful kid in the house, or he's overly busy, provoking other teenagers into a white hot irritation zone. The tide turned suddenly last Spring, he recognized his challenging issues and began working on them in a surprisingly quick manner, he still reverts at times, but usually he's amazingly changed for the better.

The three kids in this photo, Lily, 14, CW, 15, and Jack, 11, have been here since birth, nurtured and loved. One home their entire life, one house- not many kids can claim that anymore. I raised them up on the foods that I like, of course . We humans all do that, yet I like very wholesome whole grain natural foods, so that's what their taste buds have been accustomed to, just like Sarah's had been as well.

Both Jack and Lily love oatmeal on winter mornings but not that instant crap pablum sold in grocery stores. Instead they prefer oats, oat bran, flax seed meal, shredded coconut, fresh cranberries, chopped walnuts, wheat bran, and whole flax seeds in one bowl, usually with rice milk. This is my preference as well, talk about stick to your ribs.

CW's in that brooding teenage posing lifestyle that precluded breakfast, he'd prefer to sleep until the very last minute possible, and dash out the door when I'm hollering, "Let's go! Let's go!" That inclination is petty easy to live with, lemme tell ya.

They're extraordinarily sweet kids and I'm very appreciative of that fact, they're loving and calm, and I treasure every minute of being with them. Martin joined their sib group unofficially the minute he moved in 13 yeas ago, Tony's emotionally close and dependent on Lily because she's so steady and reliable, he's older, but she's taller and capable, confident and guiding, comforting to him also, as his CP makes him more vulnerable, less able at times to keep up with his peer group at school. He's been here since she was a toddler, but she's always been the one in charge, he literally looks up to her, and takes his social cues from her. She was then one, he was two years old when they met.

Folks do question me often on foods. Food is a hot topic nowadays in the media, now that the evidence is in, the obvious has been stated, we are what we eat. Eat Twinkies, be sluggish and miserable. Eat correctly and go full steam ahead. I'm nearly 60, Grandma's almost 82, both of us have had a lifetime of filling our bellies with home-grown fruit, vegetables and whole grains, and the result has been darn good health in spite of my high-stress family and her earlier high stress landlord existence when she owned a bunch of rental houses in Virginia.

Why don't folks who rent understand that the rent goes to a mortgage company, not to the landlord's pocket? The lack of logic on this earth continues to buffalo me each and every day.

(Jesse - go back and look at how tall Dubs is now, like you, he's as tall as those upper cabinets. Imagine how tall Isaiah's gonna be...)

Leeway

2012-01-18T07:35:00.004-05:00

I know enough about violence, or violent folks, that I have very little hope that the behavior would, or could, ever cease.

I'm kinda bitter from previous experiences here, from kids, for Pete's Sake. Kids.

I sat in a meeting yesterday, where the child's violence was tiptoed around, the understanding of the bipolar behaviors is there, but fundamentally to believe that it would be safe to have this person around potential victims blows me away.

I will NOT participate in allowing violence in our home.

Call me hopeless, but after many years of this, I am not beat down enough to begin to believe that anyone has changed at all. That I would take a chance like that? Seriously?

I owe it to the 12 darling kids still living at home to keep it violence free.

What if I were dating a violent person and was telling professionals, "He's changed," and being stupid enough to believe it?

I'd lose custody of my children after he attacked, right?

How is it any different when it is a child attacking other children? When the other kids cower in fright? When they must tiptoe around the one on the sofa who is glaring at them and they've done nothing wrong?

No way, y'all, no way.

My heart slammed within me during the entire meeting. That's what trauma looks like, me reliving the scary events of the past. No, thank you.

I crave peace, I lust after silence.

I desire to be boring, to have a dull life, one that is quiet and comforting...and safe.

I am very, very sorry that I, as a mother, was unable to access enough help to turn these behaviors around in four out of five kids in one sibling group. It makes me very sad. Professionals can't change these behaviors either. Blame me if you must, just help us find safety.

But don't say stuff that is untrue. Don't say that it is about the numbers at home. This one kid is now in a placement with two therapeutic parents and no other kids and the placement isn't working. Duh. It's not about OTP not working, nor the intensive cottage in another place, nor peers, nor the school system, nor the juvenile justice program, nor the way the wind blows. This one person must someday somehow some way assume responsibility for their dangerous behaviors...and, right now, I just don't see this happening, not an option yet...if ever.

There are some folks very enmeshed in their violent mannerisms, their own rage, their hatred, their aggression, and all sorts of negative behaviors. There are those who love the power that their rage has over others...in school, at home, in placements, or where ever.

It just is that way.

I don't blame the person really. I don't believe they can help it. I've observed, I've participated, I've studied and researched. I've learned and absorbed so much information from professionals, but it is what it is. It Is. That's all.

"Just checking on you," another sibling from that group called me last night. "How'd you already hear about my wisdom teeth?" he asked in surprise. "Well, I love you," he ended the conversation.

"I love you too," I responded, because I do.

In spite of it all, I do care deeply. I'd sat in the Sheriff's office at one point, several years ago, a huge nasty purplish-black bruise blossoming up from my elbow, from this person that I care for, x-rays taken, nothing broken, but my spirit. And my hope regarding family safety.

Even the therapist at the last residential placement never personally observed a violent incident, never watched the staff have to take this person down, never experienced the heart pounding fear involved, never got injured. Just reading an incident report is not enough. This is a very good therapist, but her optimism doesn't reflect the reality very much.

A behavior objective aimed at improvement, at reducing rather than eliminating violent outbursts, still allows too much leeway for injuries to others.

Books Are Safe With Me

2012-01-17T11:53:00.007-05:00

JoJo's orthodontist appointment first thing this morning, took a grown kid to the doctor office later as her infected eye precluded driving, got the prescription, home for just a minute, long enough to down a sandwich, gotta get to yet another Miss P meeting, keeping family safety as our priority.

I'd painted ten solid hours yesterday, Grandma again cooking a lovely supper for everyone. Marcela kept me company as I turned the living room a grey blue hue. "Looks like a dang playhouse," CW critiqued, as the Caribbean colors from several rooms are now all visible when one stands there watching me paint.

To alleviate the sting of his words, he fixed my shower nozzle thingy, coming back downstairs to tell me it was growing on him now. I love it.

I'm not done, a thousand interruptions slowed me down, I've been very busy with wall patching kits, fixing where fists and feet made monster holes.

What if I went to someone's home and routinely punched holes in their walls or broke windows? How is this ever considered acceptable behavior? Yet it's a behavior I'd much rather see occur in place of a kid getting hit by a rager. This can't be real life, can it?

"Come back and get me tomorrow," little Marissa ordered her mother when it was time to go. We decided on another time, when Hazel'll be here too for a grandbaby slumber party.

Tabby is so excellent with my grandchildren, playing school, jumping on the trampoline, swinging and dragging out all the toys. She was born to be an aunt. The baby of our family, she truly enjoys not being the baby when the babies are here.

I had to address an unacceptable behavior, "I don't care where you find matches," I hollered in aggravation, "Do NOT bring them into my house." Yes, lighting birthday cake candles has been a bear, going out to the van to use the cigarette lighter on a whorl of paper. Are you kidding me? No matches, no lighters, certainly no guns, and very few kitchen knives have been in evidence over the past 25 years.

I sent the 13 year old to his room, followed him, and gave him the lowdown on what would happen if he had accidentally started a fire. Thank God for the tattletales, narcs, and confidential informers who live here. This is not a difficult kid, but this behavior will not be tolerated. He was repentant which is all I ever ask of anyone, apologetic and contrite.

I can live with that.

Elizabeth sent me the following picture and I cracked up laughing.

Hilton Head, SC

2012-01-16T08:07:00.005-05:00

I haven't spoken to Yolie in some three days now. She and her family snuck off to an off-season rate beach rental for a few days to decompress. When you are the Go To family, when both sides of the family so often need your input, when your jobs demand so much of you, when life is just difficult for every human being on the planet, time away is a must.

"I'm not gonna call you," I promised her, knowing they needed down time, not phone calls.

She's sent me photos, but I've laid low, let them have this time. Mighty big of me, right?

As I flipped down the digital TV guide, looking at all the shows on A & E, TLC, Bravo, etc, I was struck by how many shows are on losing weight, clutter, obsessions, or drug interventions. There are a ton of shows on prison life, on court cases, medical anomalies, weird jobs, the documentaries all seem to have an object lesson, and then there are the ridiculous reality shows based on drama and fighting.

Everyone seems to have so much intense baggage and I thought to myself that we Jesus freaks might seem, on the surface, to be weirdos, but knowing we have a higher power surrounding us at all times, seems to me, to be even better than an over-active conscience.

The lack of a conscience, or the lack of empathy in today's world is a shade past startling. If people just followed The Golden Rule, there'd be less need for rehabilitation, right?

Maybe with no drama nowadays, my blog'll disintegrate, I have little need of processing, right? As if I've healed immediately?

Who wants to read about weeding all day long, painting door frames, hauling manure, or cheering on at soccer games? Bo-ring. I crave boring, it's my main goal now in life. Hear my meditative chant, "No drama, no drama, no drama, Ommmmmm."

My living room, with its starkly unimpressive white walls, hasn't been re-painted in the 19 years that I've lived in this house. I'm fixing to remedy that fact with a sky blue/teal that I'd also painted the long hall with a few years ago. Maybe an accent wall of a chocolate brown behind the TV and book cases?

Here's a big one though, I might drag out my old Singer sewing machine, the one Grandma bought me on my 15th birthday, nearly 43 years ago, and make curtains. I don't care much about shutting them, I feel trapped if the windows are blocked. We live out in the country, there's no one peeping in to watch us farting around in our house.

I haven't made anyone any clothes in 17 years for obvious time constraint reasons. I used to sew church dresses for my oldest girls, there's nothing like the immense variety of patterns and materials in a fabric store, to make the department store's copycat collections seem minuscule.

Nando got really angry with his birth brother, Scotty, last night, for some unimportant reason, and stormed around his own room tossing stuff everywhere. I know that on some level, he now feels it's safe to express his own inner anger, now that the ones who'd rage so significantly that the deputies would have to be called to help quell the disturbance are not here anymore.

Nando's filling the void, but to an appropriate degree. Folks are not only allowed to have feelings, but they also need to express them as well. Nando also had a great idea that he'd laboriously explained to me regarding a new chicken moat detour that'd be fun for the hens. I listened intently, and agreed with him, there's our Spring project coming up. He loves our hens, loves them, and I sure want to encourage his interest in them.

Chuy didn't want to accompany us all to a youth group luncheon yesterday after church, tired of being inside, so he stayed home, working on constructing a cruelty-free squirrel trap - a trap and release program he'd been devising in his head.

Lily made tamales from scratch, something that would not have been feasible had Miss P still been living here. She'd have taken over, knocked Lily out of the way, demanded everything, fought with folks, trashed the kitchen big time, and not followed through on anything, leaving waste and destruction in her wake. Her main objective would've only been to have controlled the family with what she felt she'd allow them to accomplish - which would've been nothing.

I'd been down that rough road for nine and a half years - trying to deal with crying kids who'd been hit by a rager or getting Grandma to keep them safe over on her side of the house as I poured hours into fruitless discussions regarding appropriate behavior while a rager roared and threw things everywhere, screaming wild accusations at everyone who'd scattered in self-defense. There'd have been no trigger, no logic, no rhyme nor reason, just temper dysregulation that always made her feel better maybe, but left the rest of us overwhelmed by the dysfunction.

It's taking me awhile to cope and to heal, how much more so for the smaller victims here?

She, Miss P, used to run outside and knock over the chicken tractor viciously, just to upset Nando and I. We'd try and catch the hens, while she would then amp it up and go after someone else, attacking and assaulting younger victims, leaving me feeling as if I'd never be able to keep us all safe from these frightening episodes.

This reminds me how grateful I am to have dispassionate professionals involved in our lives, that I've not been sucked into the crazy vortex from which there is no return. Pathways, Advantage, Dr. C, Dr. G, Dr. Mandy and many, many others helped me understand that this wasn't about me at all. I'd be wild-eyed with shock, stunned at the damage and destruction, and the professionals would do their best to help both she and I come to terms with everything. Oh My Goodness, did it take a toll on me, or what?

I'll just scratch at my poison ivy, figure out how to install this new component to my shower head upstairs, "You just need a wrench," the Home Depot man informed me, and I'll paint walls on this MLK Holiday while the kids are home from school with me.

"What's for supper?" I've already been asked four times before eight in the morning.

2012-01-15T07:39:00.003-05:00

Dr McCreight's priceless book, Recovery From Hazardous Parenting, is more of a booklet, short and sweet, at least to my ears. Grandma read it through yesterday, and was strangely silent afterwards, mulling it all over in her mind. It put to words the inexplicably bizarre life we'd been living.

When one has had a front seat to all this, a front row to the difficulties and challenges, the absolute inability of a parent to change ingrained behaviors or genetic predispositions, when the elderly parent of the beleaugured parent has had to watch helplessly all the attacks and the assaults, the rages and the destruction, well then, the secondary trauma spreads.

Grandma, too, finds immense solace in hard work. She went back to her side of the house to peel, chop and cook down apples into applesauce. She baked a ton of potatoes, put supper on the table as I continued to paint, finally making my office right perfect, using the rest of the sunny paint to cover the battle scars in our over-used kitchen.

I'd never washed my face, nor brushed my teeth all that day, had been single mindedly painting when a car pulled up, the gate already open, as different kids of mine were going here and there.

One of my oldest friends in this town came over, she'd retired from CPS, she'd been instrumental in the 1980s to guide me to the international adoption agency I'd initially used when I'd gone to Honduras, later steering me through the currents of DFACS when I continued adopting through the foster care system which was her domain for 30 years. She worked in town, my adoptions generally came through Texas. She's been my friend since Sarah was a pre-schooler.

She successfully battled through breast cancer, ten years clear now, only to find out this week that she has a MALT lymphoma.

Stunned, I just stood there crying. Really? Another massive battle for her? How is that fair?

She laid it all out for Grandma, who got that wide-eyed, yet shut down look of shock on her face, this always reminds her of Ellen, my late sister. Like me, Grandma just gets busy, trying to beat down the worry demons that tend to course through us all.

I told her, my lovely friend, that I had plenty of prayer warriors on my blog, could I ask for prayer there using her name which is Janet? I have her permission and I'm begging y'all for prayer. Her prognosis is good, I goggled everything later, yet the procedures are onerous of course, the battle can be debilitating.

And I'm whining about trauma?

Reality check.

I'd run through the entire gallon of paint, washed the brushes, eaten three baked potatoes, yeah I know, I'm a pig, but I'd sure worked up an appetite.

Tabby had somehow broken the shower head holder upstairs in my bathroom for the second time, the first time Super Glue repaired it for a year or so, but this time it, the Super Glue, squirted everywhere, down my fingers on both hands. Uh-oh.

I coped as I usually do, hollering my frustration, Lily came running with nail polish remover, which she'd heard would do the trick.

Yeah, it did, unsticking my fingers eventually, but there's a white residue, a crustiness that's gonna just have to wear off, I suppose, and the shower thingy is unfixable. Back to Lowes, I'll go. Daniel had put it on for me several years ago, the most modern thing I'd owned it seemed.

I fretted about the harsh chemicals I was soaking my fingers in, super glue itself is a chemical, we don't know where cancers originate, although chemicals play a big part in cell mutation.

Janet, a devoted yoga practitioner, she'd explained to me what Tai Chi was some 30 plus years ago, doesn't glue her fingers together clumsily like I might be prone to do, but we all suck up carcinogenic car exhaust, Lord knows the Hell that our food has encountered in the form of malathion, etc, and we inhale all sorts of everyday toxicity. I'm as baffled as anyone.

And I'm just terribly upset that she has to go through this again. It just doesn't seem fair.

I watched a fascinating National Geographic special, Aftermath: Population Zero about how much better off the earth would be without us piggish humans destroying it. A rather harsh solution...

A Real Pleasure In Moving On

2012-01-14T08:01:00.006-05:00

I slowly painted my office all day long, a canary yellow, soft and warm, an example of the sun that I don't feel on my skin today. Yesterday's high was in the 30's. That's inexcusable. This is Georgia, for Pete's Sake.

Even though I recognize the telltale hairy root when I see it, I've usually already wrapped my hand around it before acknowledging that it's poison ivy, thus the itchy forearm I'm now sporting.

My new stove arrived and was christened with a pot of garlic beans, I ran my new washing machine all day long. Such luxuries.

Acknowledge that you are sad that things didn't turn out the way you wished they had. You are entitled to cry about that. Perhaps you feel like you gave up years of your life for nothing.

Recovery From Hazardous Parenting: How To Reclaim Your Life After Raising Children With Behavior Disorders continues to soothe my soul. I ran its words through my mind all day long as I mindlessly painted, in many ways feeling spurred on to totally physically change my entire existence and surroundings here to eradicate the memories of the unbelievable, unimaginable, and intolerable stress under which I've lived for so long.

Dr. Brenda McCreight goes on to discuss self-esteem recovery which is truly something I'd never considered I'd ever have to deal with, I've always been ballsy and confident, yet torn down badly over the last 17 years. Then there's depression recovery and anxiety recovery which means working on one's brain, "that has been habituated to respond to triggers by inducing an increased heart beat, forcing an onrush of adrenaline and cortisol through the brain, and leaving you with an overwhelming sense of panic."

Amen, sister.

"Get to the point," I anxiously snapped yesterday to a dear friend, who I know well enough to know she was choosing her words carefully, an unpleasant phone call about an older kid of mine with dangerously severe issues.

Acknowledge that the main trigger, your child, is no longer your full responsibility. Say it to yourself over and over.

When others let me know what this grownup, or another grownup is doing, I have to let it go. It is out of my control. They have free will, they've been taught correctly, although their choices often don't reflect that fact.

Was I enabling yesterday to pay a seat belt violation fine for Fabian? It was his 20th birthday gift. I didn't want to give him cash, knowing it'd be spent badly, maybe even illegally. I'd thought about taking him shopping for new clothes, but I'm wary even of that because he's chronically unemployed, yet not ever intrinsically motivated by a lack of clothes, or anything else, enough to find a job.

There's a bunch of dumb girls in this world that fall for handsome boys and buy them stuff, enabling them to not have to work. That's just gross to me.

A seat belt violation? Seriously? Do you have a death wish? I paid it online, always afraid to put cash into the hand of one who isn't always truthful.

Everything I do is fraught with implications, good and bad, unseen or misleading, underlying or undermining, it's very hard to always discern the right thing to do with so many mitigating factors.

He was not the grown kid that I'd discussed earlier on the phone, which indicates the difficulty I'll have in total recovery, since there are still so many stress inducers.

In stress recovery The Adoption Counselor states, "It's time to learn how to respond to your day based on what you need and want and wish.

Whoa...that's gonna take some geting used to, lemme tell ya.

You may still have other children at home to raise, so now when they ask for a ride somewhere you can decide what to do about that without first thinking about whether you can leave your challenged child or youth at home alone for ten minutes (resulting in a fire being set or your room prowled through and items missing) or what you will have to do to get him to come with you (resulting in swearing and maybe a new hole punched in the wall). Your brain will still be assuming that there are complications to everything, so learn to take a deep and tension releasing breath before your answer.

Oh my goodness, that is so me.

One who is now in prison once broke a van window out and peed in my front seat on purpose to indicate his 11 year old displeasure at having to accompany me, but I called it 'grounded to a grownup,' as he could never be left unattended.

Paloma would always punch Tabby because both had to be in the first seat of the van, Tabby for her own protection, and Paloma for everyone else's protection, yet that didn't work either. There was no feasible answer...I'd ended up with destruction or an injury to someone.

Jonathan would flat out refuse to go, knowing I wouldn't leave him alone, so therefore his negative behaviors controlled us all, resulting in many, many missed Sunday church services and other activities.

17 years of that. More'n 6,000 days of severe emotional trauma on me - stress and anxiety resulting in periodic depression and resignation to my oxygen-less existence.

Now for the best part - Moving On.

Bye-Bye.

Raising your child to young adulthood and independence (or semi independence) has been an exhausting and stress filled process. You have managed to help your child stay alive despite his risk taking behaviors and his lack of impulse control; and, despite the lack of appropriate services and the inadequate resources.

It's going to take me some time to unlearn my nervous condition, my fight-or-flight response to loud noises, my deep-seated fear, and all the other severely negative emotions that have been thrust upon me over the preceding years. I do still have many children here at home who also need to heal, who need me to be 24-7 with them, happy, smiling and nurturing them on into adulthood.

And I gotta tell you, even with rampant ODD here and zero impulse control issues, nowadays, in comparison to the past, it's a real pleasure here.

Last night Lily and CW serenaded me again with their guitars as I worked, we had a wonderful suppertime, Mayra asked to spend the night, plopped on the sofa with Sabrina, Martin tied their hair together, and this morning on a Saturday, I've already taken three teenagers to the high school to work on their course recovery credit - Mayra being one of them, having learned that the magic age of 18 didn't quite mean what she once thought it'd mean.

An 'I Told You So' moment that I'm refraining from pointing out, it's too obvious.

Wanna lose 35 pounds? Read this, Sarah blogged her view of it.

Officer Evaluation

2012-01-13T06:17:00.004-05:00

I've gone a couple years now without any dishwashers. I plodded through the aisles of Lowe's yesterday, trying to find a stove I could afford, glancing at the dishwashers, I just couldn't get excited enough about one to figure out how I'd pay for it. I just don't care. I do the dishes, all the pots and pan, it keeps my garden-grimy hands clean, that's good enough for me.

No stove now nearly all week, that's been a challenge. I bought a store floor model yesterday and commenced to haggling about it, got 10% knocked off the initial price twice, plus free delivery and removal of the one that'd blown up on us.

It comes today, as does the Sears washing machine replacement that I've done without since just after Thanksgiving.

We think we need all this crap, yet when forced to do without, then that's OK too.

Compared to the terror-filled nights around here, having to carry dirty laundry up and over to Grandma's house was a walk in the park.

I will be happy though to again have a functional laundry room, I'll certainly appreciate it a great deal more now.

"You can finance interest free for 18 months!" the store clerk excitedly told me.

"No thank you," I responded, feeling like I should draw her out an Excel Spreadsheet about accrued interest, budgeting techniques and my system of checks and balances, but instead I moved on to our next issue which, at the moment, involved trying to schedule an MRI for Sabrina's knee problem.

Again I'm gonna quote the most brilliant Dr. Brenda McCreight, "Many families keep all that is lost through the Hazardous Parenting a deep secret because they feel shame and embarrassment that they have had so much of their life taken from them by the child they love so very much. They don't want other people to know what their lives have been like because they know and fear that others will negatively judge their adult child due to a failure to understand the complex reasons underlying the behaviors."

I've not been very secretive as I've struggled to find help. I don't gush about it out in public, nor share my feelings even at church, rather only here with an audience of other struggling, like-minded parents, or with Dr. Mandy, or others I deeply trust.

I don't confide in anyone else because, she's right, folks don't/won't/can't understand.

In all these therapeutic situations I've been in over the last 17 years, with some ten very deeply troubled individuals, nearly always it comes back to a sticker chart mentality, the underlying assumption is that if I tried this or that, then the behaviors would change, from children in whom these behaviors were already firmly established and are ingrained and a part of who they are.

Like I'm hiding something.

That's been so dang frustrating to me.

It's bad enough to be blamed by the children, for that which they brought here with them, but to have professionals not understand this one simple and very obvious fact?

Oh my goodness.

The tide's turning slowly though.

"Will it take me 17 years to recover?" I questioned my very knowledgeable and intuitive Yolie, with her Master's Degree in Social Work.

"Nah," she reassured. "You process your emotions quickly and you've finally set up boundaries."

The boundaries were difficult for me, because as a Christian we are called to help.

Yet I think I confused help with some enabling behaviors over the years.

I wish I'd never allowed grown kids to live on my property, unless they were enrolled in college and or gainfully employed consistently. I should've backed off more, emotionally withdrawn for my own self-protection.

Because I cared so much, I handed them the ammo with which to lash out at me. Maybe I should've been less emotionally involved? I allowed them to emotionally hurt me over and over and over again. I watched them use grandchildren and continue the lashing out process, I've read so many anguished emails from you mamas who've had these same things happen to you as well.

But then I'd have missed out on those who've made me so proud. Reading Daniel's military officer evaluation I nearly fell over with pride. "Promote over peers. Outstanding. Maturity. Proactive. Initiative. Not an Officer that needs hand holding, took initiative, found problems and solved them." Just a few of the adjective used to describe a Golden Boy.

Daniel did this as a child here. It was like living with a little Einstein, a genius who'd look at what was broken and innately know how to fix it. As a kid, seriously folks, he'd tell me what he needed at Lowes or Home Depot to do the job, and he'd do it. Age ten maybe, and he used this huge drill of Grandpa's and he built massive retaining walls for my garden beds.

One thing I hope I always instilled in my children, "Hang out with folks at your own level or above." I knew he'd never let anyone bring him down, we're all blessed from having been around him.

Daniel's usually the lowest ranking member in any group, he chooses to socialize with those he can learn from, and the higher ups immediately take notice that this is a very gifted young man who's easily on their level, this man knows no limits.

With, or without me, and my advice, support, parenting, Daniel would've been a winner, there's absolutely no doubt in my mind.

I won't take the credit for making him so exemplary, this was within him before we ever met...just as were the negative behaviors that came with some of my other children.

I take neither credit for all those who've graduated from college, who are holding down wonderful jobs, who are parenting properly, pay bills as they should, advancing forward in their lives - nor will I allow others to blame me for mental illnesses.

When Jesse and Sergi were 18, and I insisted and encouraged them to join the Navy, I then had a cow as 9/11 happened and they were sent to Iran. I had no clue that this was up ahead. I anguished for months while they were on their Navy ships. In the end, I think the Navy was a great experience for them both.

I had another massive cow when Daniel left college for Basic Training in the Army. I cried and carried on until he quietly shut me up with his usual logic, "Do you think I'm too good to serve my country?"

Ouch.

So I emotionally supported him, because he wanted me to do so, he commissioned after college, made Grandpa beam with pride just ten months before his death, and I still had no clue as to how much Daniel'd later enjoy the military.

I did always know that he would excel, no matter where he was, or what he was doing.

I Can Do That Now

2012-01-12T06:12:00.003-05:00

Yep, still going, still reading and re-reading Brenda's ebook, Recovery From Hazardous Parenting: How To Reclaim Your Life After Raising Children With Behavior Disorders.

For a book, it's very short, but oh so powerful. Yes, we parents will feel validated, but I believe that therapists and social workers need to read it as well, most have absolutely no clue what to do about parents like us. Instead they blame us for having too many children, or rigid or loose parenting, or not seeking out enough resources, or for having so many resources that the child feels threatened...gotta blame someone, right?

Well intentioned, educated and fairly optimistic parents that just wanted to help someone along in life. None of us having any clue as to the depths of severity of the mental and emotional issues that reside in some children. Of the ten extraordinarily difficult children I've raised, all were incredibly good-looking and quite a few of those ten seemed functional, yet delving deeper into their psyches was shocking, some of the bizarre behaviors were staggering.

Ten were severely difficult. Yep. Same ratio as if I'd only had 4 kids and one was ill. A 25% statistic available in a family of 40 equals ten.

But of the 12 remaining at home now? Zero fall into the severe category. Therefore we can begin to recover now.

Dr. McCreight explains the depression that parents may struggle with, which is only logical, but I believe I sat up straighter reading the anxiety section. For a goofy person to become anxious, the correlation, or rather the explanation, made complete sense to me.

Hazardous parenting can lead to anxiety because of the lack of predictability that comes with the child's behavioral disorder, and the constant need to be aware of all that is going on to prevent more issues, and also because of the chronic stress and exhaustion that most parents experience.

Some symptoms include: constant worrying, feeling like your anxiety or worry is beyond your control, intrusive thoughts that make you feel anxious, can't tolerate any lack of structure or unanticipated change, constant feelings of dread or edginess, can't relax, can't focus or concentrate, even small tasks feel overwhelming, certain situations or places trigger anxiety without any accompanying behavior or event, physical tension throughout the body resulting in joint or muscle pain and stomach problems.

An explanation of the neurobiology of both depression and anxiety, in her book, had my head bobbing like a duck in total agreement, and then BLAMO yet another hammering sentence jumped off the page:

Enough stress over a long enough period of time can trigger depression and anxiety so that you have the evil triplets - stress, depression, and anxiety - all at once.

Even in typing this, I feel immense stress flooding back.

On Facebook I've had to hide the status updates of the many of my older kids who either cuss, which I find immensely detestable, or they brag about getting wasted, or participating in self-destructive activities that I know will cause them heartache and pain later - that they'll then want me to bail them out of - no can do. I don't participate in enabling behaviors.

Co-dependent? I am most decidedly not so.

I may even be a total opposite of that - to the other extreme - my self-protective 'hands off' approach may seem cold.

But I'm emotionally severely wounded nowadays. I see it, I don't like it, I wanna recover from it.

I've always been very emotionally strong, to the point of appearing as if I have no feelings, maybe? Whatever.

I've deeply felt anger and grief, tension, fear and absolute blood-curdling terror, terribly anxious, deeply bothered - so many astonishingly negative emotions that have shocked me.

Now, in Brenda's wonderful book, I'm facing recovery - a recovery that is only possible when the child(ren) are no longer living in one's home due to the amygdala's perception of still being exposed to threats and stress.

The behavior disorders make it impossible for the youth to change - he will present most of the same symptoms for the rest of his life although continued brain development, life experience, and skill acquisition may modify the problem significantly.

I hope and pray, I even believe there will be improvement over the years. I pray that there is immediate improvement so that the folks (who should know better) will continue to believe I'm the problem - regarding behaviors that were evident before I even met the person with these behaviors that I'm being blamed for.

Go figure.

Who can't see that?

I turn back around to face the rest of my family that has suffered as well, either directly or indirectly, the stress, fear, tension and craziness that has taken a tremendous toll on everyone.

Last night we had extra teenagers over to our house, ten large pizzas devoured, excellent Wednesday night services at church. CW's playing a Licky Stcky ice breaker game, there were 100 teenagers in the Youth Group room last night, 11 were mine. Thank you Elizabeth for this photo.

I flashbacked to the evenings I'd have everyone in the van and then there'd be an explosion, a crazy, spitting, raging meltdown triggered by nothing, that'd cause us all to not be able to attend services, or worse yet, would happen there at church. I thought about the night that my now 15 year old daughter climbed on top of the bathroom stalls to howl her inner pain, nearly shutting down all activities for the entire church.

I thought about the endless, countless hours that I'd have to spend managing/maintaining/trying to contain irrational, dangerous behaviors at the expense of my other frightened kids who needed me to be reassuring them that all would be OK.

I can do that now.

I remain stunned even at the thought of the behaviors I dealt with for a 17 year period.

Recovery From Hazardous Parenting

2012-01-11T08:29:00.004-05:00

I spent seven wonderfully engrossing hours yesterday, because I could, outside in one little patch of my Big Back Garden. Formerly an older compost pile, one year I just threw blocks and rocks around the remnants and called it another permaculture bed, but finally I had time to clean it all up properly, pulling out fragrant mint runners and the ubiquitous quack grass.

I was listening to some Tony Robbins CDs I'd found at a yard sale, my Dave Ramsey podcasts, and keeping one eye on the sky, such a warm day, but I knew rain surely would be coming soon. Right, God?

Tony Robbins served as a brain scrubber, I have so many negative emotions that I know I need to work through, to rid myself of, the many resentments and stressors have nibbled away literally at what little intelligence I must've once possessed.

Several emails, a text, and comments from folks wanting to know when Dr. Brenda McCreight's ebook will be ready, she'd told me another month possibly. Clearly this book was written by someone in the know, someone who'd lived under these same demands and challenges, constantly fearing for one's life changes one forever.

When there is a loss, there is grief. Yet, all grief is not the same. For some, there is a disenfranchised grief which means that the negative feelings, the sadness and the losses are not validated by others and the person expressing the grief is given the message that the feelings are not acceptable. This often happens in adoptive families when others don't understand the depth of the love the parent has for the acting out child, or, the parents are told, "you asked for this, you didn't have to adopt a child."

The message of disenfranchised grief is that your feelings, your sadness, your losses in this parenting experience are not okay and no one wants to hear about your pain. There is also complicated grief which occurs when there are other factors involved, such as the strength of the attachment to the child; or, a co-existing depression in the parent; or, the parents' co-existing anger at the acting out of the young adult.

The parent may also have guilt over bringing into the family a child who harmed the lives of the other children in the home.

Honest to goodness, hearing these words from her book Recovery From Hazardous Parenting: How To Reclaim Your Life After Raising Children With Behavior Disorders has been such a balm to my ravaged soul.

I fantasize about taking a long salt air soaked sea cruise alone, all by myself, so that I can eat when I wanna eat, sleep when I wanna sleep, read when I wanna read, or just sit and stare at the ocean.

I honestly can't fathom how long it'll take to recover completely.

I keep expressing how quiet it is here now with only a dozen children, they are such great kids, the normal noise is fine with me, there's no fighting, not much destruction, what does occur is accidental, I can deal with that aspect of raising rowdy sons.

Two more teenagers are riding the bus home this afternoon to eat supper with us and to go to Youth Group, an activity we couldn't have done previously, as there were kids here then whose behaviors made company all but impossible. Their own prickliness and severe emotional disorders made them less than popular at school, indeed rendered friendless, as folks were scared of them, and one of them in particular couldn't stand other human beings, lashing out verbally and physically all the time. All. The. Time.

See? I keep re-living the severe mind-numbing trauma of the last 17 years.

I feel as if I've been beat with a bat and left for dead. I really do.

The grieving may occur for years without acknowledgement and without being recognized for what it is.

This is all so very complicated.

I keep reading and re-reading Brenda's words, finally I thought my brain would explode from over-thinking the complications, the kids were all full from supper and were bopping around the house, doing homework, laughing with each other, being silly, so I plopped down in the living room to read a beautiful book, Fields Of Plenty, very slowly, savoring each word, and loving the pictures.

Lily was playing the guitar there serenading me, and Tabby was rearranging her second semester notebook - she's only a third grader, but already planning to be a teacher, thinking ahead about a gradebook and lesson plans.

Tony, who took the above photo of Tia, Lily's Yorkie, was googling a stainless steel exahust fan that he wants me to get when I venture to Lowe's for a new stove to replace the one that had exploded.

If not today, then it'll be a Dominos night.

$64.10 for ten large pizzas with one topping, a real treat for my kids, I try and do this once a month for them.

I'm just trying to breathe regularly once again, now able to recognize grief and other complicated, conflicting emotions for what they are - part of the process.

Sarah wrote a lovely post.

Thank you, Brenda, for getting your book into my hands before I'd sent off the following order...

Daffodil

2012-01-10T08:28:00.002-05:00

A loud explosion and a shower of sparks sent Nando and I running for cover as the kitchen stove gave its last explosive gasp, scaring the tar out of us both.

That ugly fact, of the stove's demise, was later negated when Lily happily picked the first daffodil of the upcoming Springtime before we'd even had much of a taste of winter. January 9th? How can that even be possible?

I'd fallen asleep last night thinking about Brenda's book Recovery From Hazardous Parenting: How To Reclaim Your Life After Raising Children With Behavior Disorders, specifically the statement about the severe behavior disorders that have been present from the child's earliest years and are neither a stage nor a phase. They are not a reaction to a current stressor.

And that's exactly where both parents and professionals, the school system, and later employers or police officers fail to understand the crux of this situation.

These are not candidates for behavior modification theories. Our parenting did NOT cause these behaviors, and our parenting techniques will have little, if any, impact on these behaviors. No one seems to understand this simple fact of life, leaving us beleaguered parents flat out, gape-mouthed in utter disbelief. We only get the blame.

These disorders may have resulted from "pre-natal exposure to substances that are toxic to the fetal brain, or they may result from early abuse and/or neglect, or they may be from an inherited gene, or they may arise without any known inherited or environmental triggers."

What we parents then must cope with can include ADHD, an attachment disorder, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, a Conduct Disorder, chronic depression/mood disorders, Bipolar, eating disorders, Schizophrenia, Schizo Affective Disorders, substance abuse/addiction, chronic rages, FAE, FASD or neurodevelopmental challenges resulting from early neglect and/or abuse.

Those are some heavy duty diagnoses, and I know from 17 seriously severe and violently dangerous years of dealing with this level of intensity, that good parenting is just not enough.

Duh.

A Big Ole Freaking DUH. (I am so angry/hurt/bitter/sad)

Other authors ventured into this realm, one example that springs to my mind is When Love and Logic Isn't Enough, or the books on parenting The Explosive Child, but really?

Living in a war zone without any combat gear or protection is a closer example.

Dr. McCreight delves into brain wiring, it's complicated and extremely important, and she simplifies the explanation without dumbing it down, but it takes several pages, and I read it and re-read it all, trying to absorb all the information. I don't want to condense it here, my attempt is not to quote the entire book, but rather to explain the comfort I've drawn from it, as it absolutely validated my own experiences.

She continues on to list what the parent eventually feels as if they've lost over the years. There are multiple losses, some subtle, some not so much, but it may or may not include examples such as the type of parent we wanted to be, financial security, the child's eventual independence, a typical family life, marital relationships, social and familial relationships, faith, control over stress, respect from others and...here's a big one...privacy.

Social workers, therapists, child care workers, special ed teachers, psychiatrists, doctors, probation officers, police...the list of professionals that examine the family is endless and each take reports and pass them on to others for discussion and decision making without the knowledge of the parents.

Just yesterday I'd restrained myself from pitching a quiet fit to a lady that I really like a lot, Vicki, as I wanted an upcoming meeting to be with her, and her only, as I'm so dang sick of recounting everything.

I've met some wonderful therapists over the years in many facilities and I've learned a great deal, but this constant examination and finger pointing at, and of, my family has exhausted me beyond belief. I'm just very, very glad that I'm a simple and straightforward person, and thus able to lay it all out there for folks with magnifying glasses to pick through and say stupid insensitive, mean and malicious stuff to, and about me and mine, way too often.

Ya wonder why my personality is now scarred for life? Just one of the many sources of my bitterness.

That I like social isolation can only be a plus, right? Because it's what I've gotten out of all this. If I stay away from other human beings, they can't hurt me, right?

Dr. Mandy had told me fairly recently that her many years now of dealing with traumatized adoptive parents had taught her so much that she hadn't previously learned as she attained her many advanced degrees.

That's the point. We are a case in and of itself. I mentioned years ago that someday social workers will look back on all this and consider these times to have been the dark ages, as the adoptive parents are so summarily mistreated, disrespected, and misunderstood by so many for so long, plus the kids blame us too for all that happened before we ever even met each other.

And I'm one of the lucky ones.

I've found help finally for Jonathan and Paloma, it's cost me my heart and soul, but it's given my family the safety that's sorely been missing for almost ten years. And in the years before that, there were others just as disturbed that we attempted to live with amongst police visits and facility stays.

The lightheartedness nowadays is palpable.

Even after we'd turned off the electricity at the fuse box and pulled the stove out, me going Uh-oh, you know I cook all the time, fortunately supper was already on the table, the kids and I laughed and cut up, had a grand ole time, something Paloma would've never let us do.

I know from long experience that she'd have mistakenly thought we were laughing about her, even sitting there, hearing every word about the stove. the facts wouldn't matter. She'd have chosen to give us all something to cry about, even as I type these words, my stress level is rising in remembrance of those events.

I recently read in an article Gina'd sent me that it's as if 'they have no skin,' all nerve endings are exposed, and thus the intolerance of everything.

Kids would've had to flee over to Grandma's side of the house, locking the doors behind them, leaving Chuy and I to deal with the rage, the temper dysregulation, creating deep, deep fears within my kids that something would happen to me. They'd seen my bruises, seen the attacks, they, too, had been victimized.

Likely the police would've bee called, Paloma would've screamed at the deputies, they'd contact DJJ, who wouldn't always be able to help. The deputies would leave and Paloma would feel as if she won. "See? Nothing happened," she'd sneer at us all, sure she could do whatever she wanted to do, terrorizing everyone, and being validated by it, getting excited by the warranted fear she'd seen in us.

Even now, she's not been charged in any attack she's committed upon others in the facilities. I do understand DJJ's frame of reference, why charging her wouldn't do any good since she's already committed there for a two year period, but I also know how she thinks, and I know she feels untouchable, that she can commit crimes and get away with it.

Our recovery is gonna take quite some time now to facilitate. This I know.

Stuck, But Maybe I Can Be Unstuck

2012-01-09T17:26:00.003-05:00

I've been stuck.

For quite some time now, with Paloma and Jonathan both in CPS placements, I've had breathing room, I've been kinda able to look around me, crawling out from 17 trauma-filled years of dealing with at least one diagnosed mentally ill child, usually more than one at a time, plus serious emotional problems in quite a few kids, along with violence, extreme rages, aggression, and destruction.

17 solid years.

No wonder I'm stuck.

The toll on me has been tremendous.

I had a court date today in which more placements for Paloma were discussed.

Now that she's not lived in our home for 20 months, now that Jonathan hasn't lived here in five months, the rest of us are noticing we're in kind of a bewildered state of mind.

There is no danger here anymore. Can I trust that to be true?

I came home and fled to my gardens, processing everything, finding myself again stuck in a cycle of resentment, bitterness and just plain old sadness that I just couldn't help some of these children turn their sinking ship around.

And then...a gift.

Dr. Brenda McCreight, The Adoption Counselor, the absolutely adorable mother to a dozen tough kids, that I'd met this fall over dinner in Atlanta, sent me the unedited version of her new e-book Recovery From Hazardous Parenting: How to Reclaim Your Life After Raising Children With Behvior Disorders.

I sat down, read the whole thing, and busted out crying.

It was so validating. When it's available to the public, I'll refer every single adoptive parent on earth to it, this I promise.

I felt understood.

Finally.

We adoptive parents, who've parented severely troubled children, feel like freaks. Outcasts from normal society. Some of us are very blessed to have found wonderful therapists like our Dr. Mandy, some parents spend their entire parenting years defending themselves from unwarranted attacks by professionals who truly don't understand that a sticker chart won't fix this.

I'm gonna quote this book a great deal, as I see it as a major, significant key to the beginning of my own recovery. I wanna be Cindy again.

Dr. McCreight uses Mosby's Medical Dictionary to define behavior disorder as "any of a group of antisocial behavior patterns occurring primarily in children and adolescents, such as over aggressiveness, over activity, destructiveness, cruelty, truancy, lying, disobedience, perverse sexual activity, criminality, alcoholism, and drug addiction."

Dr, McCreight acknowledges that we parents are/were 'loving, thoughtful and well-intentioned." That we all began this journey "with hopeful optimism and a profound belief that as long as they did everything right, or at least did their best, then their child's life would be productive and fulfilling and the parenting experience would be ultimately rewarding."

It did not turn out as we had expected. Who expects violence and harm?

We could not find the missing pieces to the puzzle. We parents have to come to terms with it all.

We sometimes have to "let them be addicted, or violent, or mentally ill, or homeless, or angry, or disconnected from the family."

Then we parents look at our own selves and realize that now we face "marital stress, the social isolation, alienation of our other children, and the long term trauma symptoms that resulted from living through the verbal and sometimes physical abuse as well as the years of intolerable levels of stress."

Living with children presenting these behaviors of "chronic lying, stealing, intimidation, aggression and violence towards other children, animal, and/or adults, lacking a conscience, chronic non-compliance in all settings, inability to feel empathy, chronically self-centered, narcissistic and purposefully destructive."

Oh my goodness, that I survived at all should put a smile on my face.

This was all within the first couple of pages of her book. You know I'll have more to say in upcoming posts. In the meantime, I already feel better.

A Hug?

2012-01-09T06:01:00.000-05:00

Hugs? More on that below. We do hug, my kids drape themselves over me, squashing me with hugs. If only that was all they needed in order to heal, to improve, and to regenerate new brain wiring.

I'm not sure I've ever mowed the grass in January, but I cranked the push mower to trim up around the grassy areas in my Big Back Garden yesterday, later weeding, putting out bags of leaves I've stashed, and to my surprise, a strawberry plant was blossoming. The very old daffodils are up a few inches out front, but the cold that'll eventually come won't hurt them at all.

There's just something about yard work, which is an understatement here, that always soothes my rather ravaged and beat down soul.

Late last night I was watching some show on TV about homesteading in Alaska, which always keeps me humble, as I'd never be able to survive one night there, but I was thinking about how much TV I'd been watching each night, something that hasn't been possible in many decades.

I was almost asleep, bored by the flickering light, when a text came in regarding Daniel being at Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta, getting his dislocated pinky set, a Dodgeball injury from the evening. "You're getting old Lieutenant," a childhood friend had remarked on Facebook.

Goodness Gracious, if Daniel's old, then I'm ancient. What about Grandma? What comes after ancient?

For 20 something years, Daniel's had both Yolie and I constantly hovering, his future wife, Megan, now in the mix, eventually he changed to group texting last night, so as not to have to repeat each step in the reporting process. Be glad you are so loved, son.

For the next 12 days, I'll be getting three teenagers out the door nearly an hour earlier for the Credit Recovery classes. I came downstairs this morning at 5:30 to speed up the process. Usually January is a sucky morning for earliness, but it's 57 degrees already this morning, all the rain I wanted last summer, falling this week instead.

Right before one of my kids turned 18, last Spring, she moved out in a huff, a predictable pattern of behavior, "You can live with me," an older birth sister tempted her all the preceding year, that arrangement lasted all of two weeks before they were squabbling, but she found another place that harbored underage girls, undermining parental authority.

She apologized profusely to me later in a Facebook message, we're not estranged, I have trust issues, of course, but hey, let's move on. Life is as I said it would be, which is very, very hard.

She'd spent the entire year before that telling Dr Mandy she wouldn't do it, wouldn't desert her birth brothers, as her older sibs had done to her, but she did.

Several people sent me a link to this article yesterday that says what I've been saying about the miswired brains, but I found the article to be falsely hopeful. The jury is still out, the trauma that's been done has been monumentally damaging. It's not just in adoption, it's across the board in society, and I'm not optimistic at all.

If anything I'm more discouraged than ever, when therapy and resources fail to improve one's ability to make proper choices, I fear many generations will continue to be damaged.

When young and ill-prepared folks become parents, when the responsibility is just too much, when they learn that life isn't an MTV music video, when the children suffer, when it is generational, when crime and thug life tempts them...what the heck is the answer?

Ms Carr was one of the ones who'd sent me the article, one of the few teachers back then to comprehend the depths of the damage. Keenly astute, discerning the back story regarding the oddly self-destructive behaviors, she's also cared a great deal personally for my children.

I remember a meeting we'd been in when Jonathan was in third grade, discussing strategies, but both of us feeling ultimately helpless as strategy after strategy failed to make any headway.

This month, the American Academy of Pediatrics is issuing a landmark warning that this toxic stress can harm children for life.

Toxic stress might arise from parental abuse of alcohol or drugs. It could occur in a home where children are threatened and beaten. It might derive from chronic neglect — a child cries without being cuddled. Affection seems to defuse toxic stress — keep those hugs and lullabies coming! — suggesting that the stress emerges when a child senses persistent threats but no protector.

Cues of a hostile or indifferent environment flood an infant, or even a fetus, with stress hormones like cortisol in ways that can disrupt the body’s metabolism or the architecture of the brain.

The upshot is that children are sometimes permanently undermined. Even many years later, as adults, they are more likely to suffer heart disease, obesity, diabetes and other physical ailments. They are also more likely to struggle in school, have short tempers and tangle with the law.

The crucial period seems to be from conception through early childhood. After that, the brain is less pliable and has trouble being remolded.

“You can modify behavior later, but you can’t rewire disrupted brain circuits,” notes Jack P. Shonkoff, a Harvard pediatrician who has been a leader in this field. “We’re beginning to get a pretty compelling biological model of why kids who have experienced adversity have trouble learning.”

See to me these are all understatements. There's also aggression, violence, destruction and severe mental health issues to be factored in as well, leaving a cauldron of issues.

I've asked the court several times to step in with one specific sibling group here, after almost ten years of violence, assaults and attacks, I can no longer keep us safe. I don't even want to try, knowing there'll be victims in the process.

I do not feel like a failure at all.

It was an insurmountable, impossible issue for just a mama to heal. If anything, I wish I'd taken this step sooner, in order to best protect everyone. There's been too many attacks, too much fear and destruction heaped out upon us here.

If I continued to allow this, then I feel the toxic stress that'd result would take us all out at the knees. We would not be safe, physically nor emotionally.

Dump

2012-01-08T12:54:00.003-05:00

I'm tired of my own complaining, yet I know how much internal and external crap I'm facing. If I can't say something nice...

I felt slammed into reality yesterday as a young lady told me she'd just been diagnosed with Stage 3 Breast Cancer. She's in her early 30s, for Pete's Sake, a mother of two. I was stunned into silence.

Another lady, just a few years older than I am, passed away Friday from cancer. She'd done everything right, had been an exemplary educator, had not retired as soon as she could've done, now she's gone, her grandchildren left without their loving grandma. It sure makes me think.

Another family lost their patriarch. One of the grown kids in that family is battling cancer also.

I think about these folks and their loving, stable families, then I turn around to face my own family that's threatened to murder me, not the kids living with me now, but in the very near past, and I get a bit overcome with resentment, since I know how hard I worked to take care of everyone.

This 24-7 act of being a human repository/deposit dump of everyone's anger for what their birth parents did, or didn't do, has infected/affected me negatively.

This shade of hopelessness, of having wasted years and years of caring for folks who didn't care at all...the word depression flits around in my mind, and I bat it back 'cause I'm not gonna go there.

I'm gonna dive into physical work right now, that always makes me feel better. I'm gonna pray for these families I've mentioned here, knowing they're in very difficult spots right now. I'm gonna keep putting one bare foot in front of the other...

It's why I almost didn't blog today because I'm always sad, bitter and angry. Which is what I again did today anyway. I'm stuck.

In Sunday School today I was presented with exactly the lesson I needed to hear regarding this crazy world we all live in, how we have our high hopes for the next world, how we then just won't care about all the stuff that consumes us now. Even me, with my own dumb list of questions that have buffaloed me for so long, as if God owes me an explanation? Like I'll even then care?

6.205 Days

2012-01-07T07:44:00.006-05:00

Because my one goal in life is to make God proud of me, knowing He knows my thoughts, words, action, deeds, motivating factors, intent, and absolutely everything else, I tend to stay on the straight and narrow. Prudish, Fundamentalist, moralistic, conservative, whatever you wanna call it, what can I say?

"You're an idiot," some might say to me, someone not guided so strictly from within, but, hey, I'm a Preacher's Kid. I was raised this way, it is ingrained deep within me. It's basically who I am, unchangeable, unswayed. If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything.

Five hours past the scheduled appointment time, the repair person finally showed up, and I was unfailingly polite.

Three more hours passed, it was 4 p.m. and the kids were straggling in from school, tired from their three day return after the Holidays, when the repairman told me, "I hate to have to tell you this, but we need to order another part. I've rescheduled you for the 16th."

Nearly two months without a washing machine and a houseful of kids?

I didn't snap.

"Well, thank you for your time," I got out politely, agitated on the inside certainly, but what good would a fit do?

I called the Customer Resolution/Solution Whatever line and then slightly lost it. "Bullcrap," I told the man, who ignorantly suggested I hadn't exhausted all possibilities yet. He took offense apparently, using a tone of voice that hinted I was grouchy, and that I needed to give him time to read through everything.

"OK," I stated flatly, and went on an interminable hold with canned music designed to instigate postal behavior.

I maintained my neutrally verbal stance and eventually got a new replacement washer out of the deal to be delivered sometime next week.

About dang time, the recalled pump had burned up on the other machine, and done a number within the machine.

It was a warm afternoon, at least I was outside while stuck forever on the phone.

Deep, deep sigh.

"Don't you think it's normal that I might resent the ones who nearly killed you?" an older kid asked me reasonably. "I think about your bruised up arms. They took away the optimistic, sunny mom I once had, I don't deal well with loss. I don't know how Sarah can stand any of us."

Sarah has been remarkably free of bitterness, extremely so. She, too, has a massive, unbudging amount of faith in God, yoga calms her, and she has a lovely, fun family with which to live, blessing her every moment of her day.

But my other much older kids? I understand their frustration. They never raged, never broke windows, never attacked me, never threatened me, certainly they were difficult to raise, angry and emotionally wounded when they arrived here, bewildered and sad, but basically good, decent human beings, and over those often tumultuous years of their childhood, we had a pretty good time.

That's what spurred me on to continue adopting.

Then whamo, and not just here, but amongst other adoptive moms that I know, the mid-1990s brought about a whirlwind of more severe emotional disorders running through the older children available for adoption. I don't know why, maybe funding for long term placements in facilities then began to dry up, maybe it was the meth or crack ingested by birth parents, maybe it was the water we all drank, who the heck knows?

For the last 17 years, I've been neck deep in difficult, nearly insane, behaviors surrounding me in this house.

17 years is a very long time, 24-7, to deal with severely irrational behaviors that needed a full-time professional staff.

It's why I eventually retired early from the school system, more'n ten years ago, taking a lifetime 14% painful pension cut forever, but likely, the past 17 years has taken 14% off my original life expectancy anyway.

That's not funny, Cindy.

I can laugh, or I can cry.

That's 6,205 days that I've routinely gotten up to tend to folks who didn't always want me to do so, and weren't hesitant about raising Hell in response. At that point, I'd already been in the adoption world for close to a decade, and had already parented for 22 years.

I still have a dozen kids at home, so I'm clearly not finshed yet, but there's only aggression, not necessarily violence, there are impulse control issues, not physical assaults. There's teenage rebellion, not insanity. There's emotional touchiness, not murderous temper dysregulation. It's fun again.

That's a world of difference.

So I do understand what the older kid had recently told me. I am changed, Badly changed. It's difficult to pour one's everything into folks who resent one for doing so. A thankless sacrifice, not only thankless, but ruthlessly punishing me for it? That's unacceptable.

I can only control my own reactions to the previous 6,205 days. I can be bitter and sad, which I am, or I can begin to try and heal, which is my plan.

The 12 darlings still here need a tremendous amount of attention, time and love, which I gladly have to give.

----------------------------------------------

Wrote it all early this morning before Sabrina surprised me with a very early morning request to go see the Chiropractor about her knee, knowing they take walk-ins on Saturday morning. We also did the errands that the repairman's late show-up time eliminated yesterday.

I am so blessed to have Grandma living here allowing me to run out and tend to stuff, an always eager babysitter, but nowadays, facing no danger and little balking at the need for a babysitter at their ages. It's called supervision.

Coach Toney dropped by with a ton of clothes for the boys, Marianne had recently super-blessed Nando again with his all time favorite soccer apparel, all of our needs are always met.

And Sarah's been on a blogging streak.

Drinking

2012-01-06T06:58:00.004-05:00

"Did your kids tell you all about their drinking last night?" A lady hollered across the high school's front office to me, immediately silencing everyone else who whirled to see how I'd react to this news of an apparent binge.

I cracked up laughing because she was talking about youth group game at church the night before, where Martin drank lemon juice and Sabrina drank some weird concoction of other stuff like Worchestershire sauce to make some teaching point.

My kids, of course, won that contest.

See how mild and uneventful our lives have become?

I'm loving it.

Just loving it.

Maybe today Sears will even keep their appointment to again repair the washing machine that's not functioned at all in six long weeks, forcing me to drag everything to Grandma's side of the house to wash. Sears keeps ordering parts that don't fix the problem, I'm maintaining my Christian witness, not exploding at their inability to repair or replace the bugger.

Seriously? After what I've survived? A malfunctioning washing machine's not gonna push me over the ledge.

Dinners are peaceful, evenings are fun, folks get along, and there's no destruction at all. Normalness, how I've missed you.

Those that aren't here continue to do OK in placements, Jonathan so much more so than Paloma, who still acts out violently.

RAD has enabled them both, although neither are full blown, to function better without the minimal expectations of treating folks decently, and with a basic degree of empathy that's necessary within a family.

The fact that Lily, Tabby and Sabrina are now free of irrational viciousness, that we can go out in public without fear of an embarrassing meltdown, or unexpected, unwarranted physical attacks, has so lifted the overall family mood. That Nando is not bullied badly, nor am I physically threatened on a daily basis...oh my goodness, smiles abound.

Sabrina received her letter jacket yesterday. Paloma would not have stood for this, she'd have been overcome with rageful jealousy. I've been down that road with her many, many times before. She'd never have comprehended that Sabrina's hard work in cheerleading earned this for her. She'd have raged until she got one, which wouldn't have been possible, so Sabrina would've had to cave in and give it to her, or risk a scissors attack in retaliation. I've been to that rodeo too many times. I have shell-shocked kids from it all.

I remember her irrational rage once at Mayra for having an older birth sister that took her places and traded clothes with her. The same clothes that were later viciously knifed. Who lives like that?

I couldn't even smile at Lily or Tabby without being screamed at by Paloma. Y'all, it was brutal.

Chuy, the lone surviving brother here of a sibling group, is vastly relieved and infinitely glad to not have to restrain a raging sibling. Having been viciously attacked, blindsided by an older one several years ago, well it nearly did him in.

"I need graph paper," three teens told me last night, adding to my second semester dumb errand list. "Size nine gym shoes," Tony requested.

I'm out of Nutritional Yeast, something I put on so many foods, much as one would use salt. Even my kids like it. Chockful of the B vitamins that stress has depleted from my system, I'm never without it, but it means a trip across town to Earth Fare. I hate running errands, hate driving, hate leaving my property, but it is adjacent to a neighborhood known for having bagged up leaves curbside, so I'll reward myself for venturing into town.

Got my 1.5% cost of living raise in my retirement check that was vastly overshadowed by health insurance spikes which aggravates me, as I'm healthy and don't traipse off to doctors.

But thank God that I do have insurance, thank God for a pension, thank God for living beneath my means, thank God for a peaceful home, even though it's full of loud, boisterous and oppositional teenagers. That I can take, it was the dangerous violence, the irrational behaviors that had ground our family to a halt.

I hope and pray they both do very well in living situations without us, I want them to succeed.

But until you've lived as we lived for those nine and a half years, under immense stress and craziness, please do not judge that I've chosen safety and peace, that I've removed a simmering documented threat to the community. My gut tells me I've done the right thing, I know it deep in my heart. I will stand by this unpopular decision. I am one million percent satisfied that this was the right move. I was afraid I'd have alienated the rest of my children had I allowed the violence to continue, yet I was helpless to stem it.

We'd gone to Dr. Mandy's yesterday, dealing with some fairly severe anxiety issues of a teenager, his grief at older birth siblings moving away from Georgia, and his many fears about his own future. Personally I'm very grateful that he trusts Dr. Mandy. I think his ability to express all this bodes very well for his future. He's very handsome, he has no shortage of giggling teenage girls chasing after him, but his severe emotional neediness, which I totally understand, will someday drive women away from him.

I want him to overcome this fear, this extreme anxiety, so that he'll also succeed in life.

Marianne, see how happy Nando is with his new shirt?

Earning 'Em All

2012-01-05T06:13:00.006-05:00

Looks OK, but the next shot shows the unavoidable eye wrinkles on gets from facing 60. I earned 'em, lemme tell ya.

Deep sigh. I just finished perusing news headlines, very surprised at the level of gossip that is reported on news pages. Go ahead and call me an old school prude once again, but I really am shocked at the base level of human behavior overall.

In comparison, my kids are an amazing group of humans. I've never seen Teen Mom or Toddlers and Tiaras, I don't watch Pretty Little Liars nor Disney Channel shows, but it's unavoidable to protect one's innocent eyes from blaring headlines about the star characters in those shows.

All those Housewives of Here and There? It's crawling out from under a rock behavior. I may not have seen the shows, but even I recognize the stars in that they get so much mainstream news coverage.

I really do find it shocking, my church lady primness taking over. Yeah, I'm so prim I eat sandwiches with muddy hands so I can keep on working without my stomach growling and distracting me.

We had an uneventful return to school day yesterday. Lily's friend, Jaden, came home with her after Art Club to eat supper and go to Youth Group with us, and I got to attend the Wednesday night service as well. Gone are the days, I hope, when I'm trying to maintain dangerously mentally ill kids at home.

My other kids are starting to be able to believe that this calm stability can be maintained too. It has certainly taken a toll on everyone.

After so many years of larcenous behaviors, violence and aggression, bedwetting and rages...my own severely traumatized self is even starting to believe, or hope, we can be normal again.

We still have aggression issues here, but not extreme violence. Oppositionalism abounds, as does defiance, but that's emotional, not mental, and there's a huge difference.

A new teacher at the high school has both CW and JoJo, mirror opposites, in his Government class, bless his heart. So glad the luck of the draw didn't pair the Emotional Twins, JoJo and Allen, in one class.

"I have no other Bodies in any class this semester," Martin complained at dinner, which reminds me Fatcat, Paulanne, right? wanted my bean recipe which initially stumped me...it's soak and cook...until Sarah again patiently explained, "And then write what you do with the beans."

Ohhh.

I hate canned beans, it's a personal peeve of mine, they taste funky to me, metallic and tasteless, so I buy bags of dried beans and soak them overnight and then cook on high for a couple of hours, no matter what kind of beans, I know they need chili powder and garlic in the cooking water. Lily loves to throw in a fresh jalapeno, cayenne or any kind of unsuspecting pepper also into the water for the beloved boost it gives.

With pinto beans I then drain 'em, and run them through the food processor with water until smooth. Sometimes I just mash 'em and add water, then they look like refried beans, but there's no way I'm gonna fry 'em up in lard, going the traditional route, and giving us all heart attacks in the process.

All my kids'll tell you that my beans are to die for...but not literally so.

We spread the ensuing mixture on tostadoes, burritos, or tacos, or I fry up corn tortillas lightly in oil (olive oil for me) on my big black cast iron skillet. Then we grate pepper jack cheese, we add sour cream, lettuce and tomatoes, or salsa, as much Fire Hot Pepper Sauce as one can tolerate, sea salt, black olives, and/or whatever else strikes one's fancy, gobbling down tons of it. Especially love fresh guacamole with it all.

"I love to come home and smell the beans cooking," Martin told us all last night, reminding me how Vanessa claimed she could always tell when she got off the school bus each afternoon what I was cooking, as the exhaust fan carried the scent of garlic all the way down the hill to the other dirt road where they got off and headed home.

But I put garlic in everything, therefore it was the redolent scent of garlic that was so comforting to them all.

When I cook black beans, I always also make brown rice, and mix it all up. In Costa Rica many years ago I watched a cook plop a fried egg on top and I've done that also.

Red beans need corn and rice on laundry day which is a New Orleans tradition, good thing I only lived there a year, as I do the dang laundry several times a day, rather than weekly. I wish.

I cook lentils plain, and I'm sure Sarah has a cannelloni beans recipe.

I love beans - beans and rice, rice and beans...cool before Dave Ramsey made 'em a household name.

Wonder foods for one's heart, body, and budget.

I forced my sorry self to exercise yesterday. I forgo expensive equipment and stair stepped on the bottom step to my bedroom while seven dogs crowded around me, quizzically looking at me askance, like a "Go already!" when I'd only go up and down one step, likely they were sure I'd finally lost my mind. I proved it by dancing up and down my long hall to music only I could hear, due to an Ipod, so glad the kids weren't home to laugh at me.

Sarah's reading a book about writing that's inspired her to blog more lately. I'd wanted to read it, but Stephen King wrote it and I've never read any of his acclaimed books. I don't like scary stuff. Are you kidding me? What if he 'd lived my frightening life? So many nights afraid that I'd wake up with a knife in me, or worse yet, not wake up. Then he'd really have something to write about, right?

This is the frigid air mass that Sarah's complaining is so Arctic, Georgia folks are such weather sissies.

Seattle Radar?

2012-01-04T07:48:00.003-05:00

I know, to the penny, precisely how many crumpled up one dollar bills I spent at yard sales in 2011. What I do not know, is how much was spent on clothing or furniture, books or bikes, kitchen items or toys - same issue with thrift store expenditures. This year I vow to change that. I have categories after all, I need to know this dollar amount.

I also don't delineate gas spent on van versus truck. What would it really matter, because either way, I'm using a vehicle expense as a necessary fixed cost, right?

I don't exercise as I should, rationalizing to myself that I'm always active, but we all know that's just not good enough. Maybe if I made myself a fast play list I'd get off my butt and stair step at least here in the house, since it's too dang cold to venture outside.

I weighed my creaky butt on a commercial scale yesterday and realized I have more than 8 pounds on Sarah. Oops.

But I don't necessarily wanna be skinny, just happy. No, not even happy, just fulfilled, filling as if I have a sense of purpose, be it raising my last number of darlings, or producing pounds of produce.

We're coming up on Martin's 13 year anniversary with me; he and Tony are the remaining siblings from their original group. Martin's been a Pure T blessing. Yesterday he and CW trudged after me on dumb errands, that is not me in the burgundy pants, Girlfriends, you know I only wear black legging material. He pushed 15 year old CW right past the original Pre-K Director that I stopped to hug, slinging college-ruled notebook paper into his lap at the same time.

I'd left Allen, Chuy and Tony, three 16 year olds alone at the hair salon across the road from Wal-Mart, so I could run the other errands, they all wanted to glam up before school started back today. This was Tony's first non-backyard haircut. He wasn't very impressed with his experience. "I could've done this my own self," he later informed me, as I bit back the "I told you so."

Daniel's 26 now, and once went to a salon just to see what the fuss was all about, coming away disappointed, back to shaving his own head and pocketing the ridiculous amount of money involved.

Advertisers would have us all believe that our lives would infinitely immediately improve if only we did this or that, it's never enough, and folks chase after non-fulfilling expenditures for the rest of their life, on a go-nowhere treadmill to Dissatisfaction County.

I'm the one that has upped our haircut expenditure line item, getting my grey hair colored every couple of months. I don't go to an expensive place, it's reasonably priced, and it is my one alleged treat. Funny thing is, it's not a treat to me, in that I'm too restless to enjoy the down time. It's a necessary time dump, that's all.

But I'm questioning myself about it, why do I do it? Why don't I just go all grey with a no nonsense haircut? It's not like I'm trying to impress anyone. I spend most of my happy time with a spading fork that doesn't give a good cahoot how my hair looks.

I'll chew on that all day, just as I ruminate about whatever was the last fact I read before closing down my computer and starting my chores/tasks/fun jobs/painting/manure hauling/leaf gathering/vacuuming/laundry, etc. Yesterday I fretted over 300 unsolved murders in Seattle. Seriously. Today it'll more likely be on how do Georgia plants survive our wildly fluctuating January temperatures?'

Evidence that I must really need a life. Why is Seattle even on my radar? I read one story that led me to another, then to another, and so on.

We have credit recovery coming up. I enrolled Mayra and two others, if one has above a 60 in the class, credit can be recovered by paying $75 and going to a class at school an hour early every day for a month, plus two Saturdays, to bring it up to a passing grade. That said, it's first come, first served, slots fill up rapidly, but it sure is a great idea I believe. This is not our first time, nor will it be a Bodie last.

Via World Vision, Kevin and Lauren give Christmas presents in the best way possible, donating specific money in a person's name to be used productively. In Grandma's case it bought someone a new well in a third world company, for my family it bought another family a goat and two chicks. How cool is that? My family needs nothing, this other family needed food via these farm animals. Now that's faith in action, and I absolutely love it.

Mom and I don't exchange gifts, neither do my brothers and I. I honestly need nothing, neither do they.

I have four pounds of pinto beans simmering on the stove, the garlic and chili powder fragrance wafting down the hall, making me smile, as I nervously count out the remaining Fire Hot Pepper Sauce containers, praying it'll get us through until I grow more.

As time passes, more and more of my kids are indulging in this addictive delicacy, lavishly spreading it on just about everything we eat. We've been fighting a virus here, but I'd risk betting the barn on the fact that the FHPS is boosting our immune systems into the stratosphere. We may get touched by colds, but rarely laid out by them. I feel like I've coughed up a lung, but physics lessons reassure me that I've not done so. It's not even possible, silly girl.

I'm Leaving

2012-01-03T07:48:00.005-05:00

I'm gonna use Jesse and Isaiah pictures this morning, since I'm clearly not talking about them today, but rather an immature teenager here.

Not doing any resolutions, rather making goals and plans, sitting at my desk the entire day, nerding up my spreadsheets, calculations, projections, and year-end sums. I generally sit with the kids and explain to them that we spent this or that, here's where you can help with keeping the electrical bill down, here's where we can cut costs, or here's where we need to readjust the numbers.

"How do you know exactly how much we spent on gas for the van?" one asked me, completely forgetting I'd just spouted this off at the end of 2010, 2009, and so on.

"I write it down," I said very, very slowly. "This is what a budget is, this is how one can plan."

Dave Ramsey calls it telling every dollar where it's gonna go. It's seriously been close to 30 years since I first heard of the amazing Larry Burkett. I took a six week video course way back then, before ever adopting anyone, on Biblical money management, but being a bona fide geek, I also read every single book I could find on the subject, listened to his radio show for years until his death, and then moved on to soak up Dave Ramsey's brilliance.

Was it a video course or a 16 millimeter film presentation? I don't remember, but I do recall my own fascination with it all.

I've tracked my spending all of my life. Even as a teenage waitress, I can remember the feel of the coins in my ugly burnt-orange Shoney's apron pocket, me taking the tables of the lazy waitresses who wanted a smoke break, me figuring what it was costing them, telling them so, only to realize that they didn't give a crap. Marlboros were more important.

Really? Is it an IQ issue? I absolutely remember wondering what made folks not want to earn money. Those pretty ladies just blew their smoke in my face, and looked at me like I probably didn't have anything better to do than to hustle around earning money. They were then so much cooler than me, this gawky dork.

I gotta wonder though. How do you like me now?

How else could I ever have figured out how to raise a baby when I was barely 19 years old? How could I have finished college and gotten two post graduate degrees, bought and sold houses, and raised this many children? How could I have gotten ten of my kids through college so far?

Being uncool, untrendy, a square, whatever has worked for me.

I am accountable.

A teenager wanted me to leave my pile of paperwork and take him to a friend's house which I didn't want to do, pointing out that he'd been gone all day the previous day and evening. "Let me work," I stressed. I ended up not even unlocking our gate yesterday, working the entire day on financial stuff.

He texted me on his Iphone (that I paid for) that he hated this stupid family and was gonna leave.

Wow.

I'd just shelled out $750 for the Driver's Ed classes for four kids, including him, taken him to Busch Gardens and a beach trip, shopping later the after-Christmas sales with and for him, and I was researching next year's summer vacation at that exact moment, figuring how much I needed to put aside each month.

I didn't even answer him.

I don't like texting arguments anyway.

Since I wouldn't engage, he stormed upstairs to his bedroom that has a nice TV in it, and slammed himself on his bed to pout like a two year old, apologizing some four hours later. I didn't even point out the food, shelter, and other bills - monetary issues that I pay for, so that he can be free to sulk.

The real issue?

His grown birth sibs, who also stormed off dramatically and ridiculously, had spent the entire previous day with him, their presence physically reminding him how much he missed them, which is perfectly normal, but he is unable to properly process his own feelings, having been so originally traumatized. Fortunately he does talk with Dr. Mandy, which I found astonishing, as he's usually pretty closed off emotionally.

I pointed this all out to him. He agreed, which was also surprising. Years ago he'd have raged at all my 'talking about the real issue.' That used to drive my kids nutso, but now, so many years later, they're beginning to agree that I might really have a clue. It is starting to make sense to them somewhat.

"Mom's right," I hear them say, "Life is hard."

Maybe nowadays I can start to get some financial long term knowledge embedded in their minds?

Why I Garden

2012-01-02T14:08:00.005-05:00

If one substitutes the word farm or garden, using it only as a verb everywhere Sarah used the word 'yoga' then you have a post I could've written.

When I'm sad, I farm. When I'm stressed, I farm. When I'm happy I garden When I'm irritable I garden and so on and so on.

Try this Sarah.

All poses look this hard to one who can't sit nor stand still. This is cool though, isn't it?
Lord Have Mercy, I'd rather hoe a thousand long rows of anything else.

Now that appeals to me, hot sun on my back, arms churning, feet moving, and getting the job done.

Everything Else and A Lot Of It

2012-01-02T07:55:00.004-05:00

The family photo is that of my daughter Deysi, now 35 years old. Sabrina is Sabrina, resilient and happy.

Sarah wrote a wonderful post on Meatless Mondays, making the point that folks aren't just gonna become vegetarians, but are more likely to give up meat maybe for a day a week.

Here on January 2nd, with resolutions possibly still in effect, folks want to lose weight, and what better way than by eliminating greasy meat fat from their diet? If they could see how slim and willowy Sarah is in real life, how thin she is right now facing 40, they'd never bite another cow's butt again in their life.

Eat cow, look like cow. Eat celery, look like a stalk. There's probably a middle ground. Insert sarcasm.

I'd read a tweet recently stating something to the effect that folks who eat more produce are thinner - no matter how many calories are involved. Duh. It's the fiber that's the secret.

I'm not willowy, I'm too close to 60 for that, but I'm not heavy. You can't necessarily tell, as I don't dress very well because I just don't care anymore how I look. I dress for comfort and ease of movement as I super sonically fly through my days. I weigh 8 flabby pounds more than Sarah.

Yesterday, likely our last day in the 60s for a while, I attacked the quack grass again after a wonderful church service. A big "Yay!" for our church for now offering Financial Peace University. Oh my goodness, it's life-changing and stress reducing.

Martin, Chuy and CW voluntarily took out a major limb, dripping with gnarled wisteria vines, that had crept out over my Big Back Garden so subtly over the last 20 years that I'd not noticed quite how much afternoon shade was being produced over a couple of the permaculture beds.

Like ridding myself of clutter, I instantly felt better when my guys had accomplished this mission, as did they. Getting something done always gives one a sense of inner reward. I think if more folks got off their butts there'd be so much less need for diets, anti-depression meds (that still tempt me to try), and even psychiatric interventions...well for the mild cases, I suppose.

I know I've been at great risk for depression and anxiety. A risk brought about by facing incredible odds with little support.

I've fought it tooth and nail, the depression that is.

When my incredibly beautiful friend had told me how Lexapro was like wrapping a warm fuzzy blanket around herself after the loss of a loved one, I was very, very drawn towards it as an option for me. I ultimately decided against it, as I'm seriously afraid if I ever allowed myself to feel good pharmaceutically, I'd never quit, never come off the drugs. Why would I?

So I still resist.

At this point though, now that life has eased up on it pressures, I feel as if I'll make it just fine. Still, of course, battling a great deal of resentment at how I've been treated, my chosen recourse is self-imposed isolation. I feel that time will someday heal me.

I'd recently listened to some mothers telling me stories about their kids, birth children who'd broken their hearts publicly and viciously, for no other reason than youthful rebellion, and I was stunned. My first thought was those kids are just plain idiotic, having no clue as to the depths of damage that trauma does to other children like mine. Simple rebellion? Really? That justifies you majorly disrespecting your parents?

Ouch.

As a banged-up mother of severely traumatized children I've built up some cement fortified walls around my heart, afraid to put it all out there anymore, knowing that just gives ammo to angry, irrational combatants. I'm even afraid to get very attached to certain grandkids knowing that the parents will use the kids to hurt me. I know this is common, I get your emails, it's a vicious new low, isn't it?

I know that I've numbed myself, via inner fortitude, which may not necessarily be a good thing overall, but having been hurt and disrespected so severely and so often over the years, as they try and make me pay or what their birth moms did to them, what choice have they left me?

My three who've been here since birth know they're loved, they don't play mind games with me, it's a simple relationship. Reciprocity and respect is involved, even as I type right now, CW's playing his guitar around me, soothing and sweet, a 15 year old son who is usually wonderful.

Lily made Kale Chips last night that I gobbled down like a starving man, using olive oil which my heart needs and sea salt.

The way a vegetarian eats is just good for oneself and allows one to eat a ton of food. Sarah remarked how she could even eat at a meat eater's table and come away full. Well said and very true. We eat everything else and a lot of it.

But you know I'd even heard a case recently where a philandering husband who felt bad over what he'd done to his family, eventually made his new wife emotionally pay for his past sins, office workers feel the wrath of their boss after a fight with his third trophy wife, dogs get kicked by frustrated middle management folks, and others hit the bottle to self-medicate their inner pain.

I get it. I attack quack grass rhizomes, flip big, sodden and heavy compost piles with spading forks, and dig, dig, dig, deep into garden beds, ridding myself of massive physical and emotional frustration. Spiritually I'm not frustrated at all, it's the only place I feel calm, protected, and motivated. Thank God for God.

"Birth children run away too," Vanessa defensively informed me, trying to justify how she'd paved the way for her birth sibs to do what she didn't want them to do.

"Do you think Sarah ever did?" I asked reasonably.

Silence.

More silence.

"Well, some do," Vanessa stated.

She's right. Some do. I pray her own child doesn't.

Shatter/Shadow doesn't. Shatter loves me, trusts me and hangs out with me...and I'm her third or fourth placement. This photo is another Tony composition. Great job, son.

Happy Who Gives A Poot

2012-01-01T06:51:00.005-05:00

Here's hoping my readers yawn throughout my blog posts here and evermore, that I can drone on about the weather, nutritional analysis that makes my blood boil, or a mind-numbing, exhaustive treatise on soil composition.

Dear Lord, please no more police action, violence nor strife. No more assaults, attacks, damage and destruction.

Let me fade into the sunset, digging in the dirt peacefully, stopping only to hug my grandbabies, and cook us some vittles.

Seriously.

I'm tired.

Bored with drama, and with hard-headed folks battling the results of their own piss poor choices. So many 'I told you so moments' that I refrain from pointing out. Oh puh-leeze, too easy.

I wanna read library books and watch endless baseball games on TV.

I want to set stuff down somewhere and have it exactly where, and how, I originally left it.

I want visitors to need to bring a compass, or a machete, to hack their way through the indoor tangle of plants that so comfort me.

I wanna freeze time and keep our household just like it is right now, the safety and the hilarity exactly as it is at this moment.

I allowed Sabrina to stay out until midnight for New Year's Eve, she was home at 12:01, waking me up to let me know.

She turns 17 next month, Martin turns 18. My once baby Martin, the sweetest son I've adored since I first met him.

When I stop long enough to be with other folks, last night it was CW's friendgirl's Mama, and I realize how many decades have flown by, I'm slap silly stunned. She was reminding me of a youth group trip I'd chaperoned a thousand years ago when I'd thrown a fit in the ER, because the nurse wouldn't allow me to be with this then teenager, Cher, who'd stepped on a nail and needed medical treatment. We'd been at a work camp in Arkansas, I think that was the year I'd turned 32, and thought I was ancient.

Now Cher's fixing to be 40. My other girlfriends, Vanessa, Connie and I were talking about how so many families we've known for so long have gone through so many heartaches, challenges and battles. I get consumed with my own family and am absolutely oblivious to the outside world. That's pretty selfish of me, I know.

My own daughter, Vanessa, was echoing the, "Mom's right," theme about life yesterday to her younger birth siblings. They aren't gonna have an epiphany just because Vanessa said that, they're not gonna then just treasure our time together, they're teenagers for Pete's sake, and have to learn a buncha crap their ownselves, looking at me like I'm nutso for expressing there's no way I envy them their youth.

No, thank you. I've earned the right to be individualistic, ornery, eccentric, and happy. I can slough around in my pjs and house shoes, crumbs falling on my front as I eat peanuts whenever I wanna.

"What if the world ends in 2012?" my overly anxious son asked me, falling prey to a spate of dumb movies predicting the Mayan calendar knows it all. I'm positive the Bible says we don't know the time, but the bottom line is, "Who cares?"

God's in charge, and I'm happy and confident in His power.

I'll keep repainting our walls, replastering the wall damages, and if the world ends so be it, if it doesn't, then I've still got a ton of work to do. And work is what I like to do. Color me oppositional as well.

Some Of It

2011-12-31T15:48:00.004-05:00

Nothing like a little grandbaby time to start my day, first thing this morning I got to be with Evelyn who's a wiggle wormish, happy baby. I wasn't for sure that Vanessa would make the long trip, but she did so. I was happy to see her.

Vanessa, now 21, and Mayra, 18, have taken JoJo, 14, and Allen, 16, off for the day, so Grandma babysat and allowed me to attend a super beautiful wedding this New Year's Eve afternoon at my church. One of my oldest friends was there, a woman also named Vanessa, and you best believe I tarried at the table with her eating some delicious cake. Both of us marveling that 30 years had sped by, leaving a lot of stuff in its wake, both good and bad, lemme tell ya.

I'm grateful to God that I've spent 35 years right here, knowing generations of families, growing deep roots, and seeing The Big Picture.

The bride was too pretty for words, the wedding was simple and elegant. The groom's family owns the Roll-Off Systems and they left for their honeymoon in this truck.

I flat out cracked up.

I'd nearly teared up when the bride's mom, my friend Beth, entered with the bride, knowing they'd lost their beloved Dodie this fall. I'm too tough and ornery to cry at weddings, so I held it in, thinking I've never been miserable alone, but I've been so in marriages and in some relationships. Hmm, that's eye-opening for me.

This wedding I attended today? This is gonna be a great marriage of two wonderful adults.

I did not know that Moneyball was a book, nor was I very aware that this mathematical theory had really been put into play back after the Oakland A's got knocked out of the ALDS in 2001 by, of course, the Yankees, best team money can buy, and my favorite brother-in-law, Kevin's, all time number one team. I still love him in spite of that bent. I didn't know all this because I'm National League, duh, not American League, plus I've been kinda bogged down in kid details around here for decades.

I'd enviously eyed the George Steinbrenner Field while in Tampa, home of the Yankees. Their spring training camp, an hour away from the Brave's camp in Orlando, top of my bucket list certainly, unless Kevin gets married and his wife won't let him go with me. That'd suck.

I think I might've only seen one Brad Pitt movie in my whole life, and I didn't know much about his work, but oh my goodness gracious, he nailed this part. Nailed it. Reminded me totally of my own brother's coaching mannerisms and clipped ability to get the job done. He favored my brother, Gary, immensely in this film, even Kevin noticed it. An intense, brooding focus on the job, tunnel vision, a dry wit, and an attitude.

I could go see it again just to make sure I absorbed all the statistics and theories. It was that good. My kids would've hated it. I ran into one of my favorite deputies, Kandy, today, she' a Braves fan bigtime, telling her about it. Daniel and Gary would love this movie, love it. Jimbo, too.

Lauren and Grandma babysat while we went to the movies, playing Rummicubes. Lauren's now almost 23 years old, which blows me away, taking a youth pastor job this upcoming week in Virginia, I'm so dadgum proud of her. I'm always blue when she leaves.

CW's on a date this afternoon with an older woman, she's 17, and the granddaughter of friends of mine, another family I've known for so long. Heck, I went to this young lady's parent's wedding some 20 years ago, but didn't go to the aunt's wedding because that was The Day that Turner Field opened for the very first time with an exhibition game of the Yankees and the Braves, and Kevin was here. Duh. Easy choice, right? Plus we'd gone to the very last game in Fulton County Stadium before they tore it down, again a Braves and Yankees game, that prevous fall.

Brad Pitt's character remarked, "How can you not be romantic about baseball?"

The guy the aunt married, besides being Sarah's dear friends, eventually became Jesse, Joe, Daniel and Sergi's youth pastor, and now is gonna officiate at Daniel's wedding next fall.

Yep, it's all intertwined around here. Very much so.

And that Daniel? His mother's son certainly. Nerding up like Grandma. His text read, "So you would proud of me. I called Charter to tell them to come get ALL my boxes. Thus saving myself $23/month. I had prepared myself for a non-DVR life by bumming. After speaking to several different reps until I got a nice military friendly guy I'm now upgrading to whole room DVR, free DVR 12 months. And the 2nd whole room box is $3 cheaper. So I'm now getting upgraded to better system AND saving $18/month."

That's what I've always taught here, those little expenses add up. Vanessa was even trying to explain to her baby birth brother, JoJo that he had no clue how much all those gallons of milk that he drinks around here cost. "No clue, JoJo," she stressed. "You really have no idea about real life. Mom spoils you."

And how many of y'all remember how hard I worked trying to explain all this to her back when she wore her Viper Girl cloak? And one of my friend/readers, Nancy, freezing in the Midwest, has so dilligently prayed over Vanessa. Get this Nancy, Vanessa is attending church on her own nowadays, illustrating the power of prayer.

So glad to know that some of it sunk in. Some of it.

And so many folks ask me how they can help us. I always ask for prayer. Always. That's all we need.

The other line from the movie that resonated with me? "The first guy through the wall gets all bloody." Exactly how I've felt in the adoption of older children that's nearly been warfare what with so many skirmishes and battles. Eventually we all win, right? The kids and I?

"The first one through the wall always gets bloody" - this idiom uttered by Boston Red Sox Owner John Henry perfectly encapsulates what this movie is all about. Being a trailblazer sometimes comes at the expense of criticism.

And good golly, have I been criticized, or what? If nothing else, at least I had the cojones to keep on trying day after day with my kids, not always in the direction I'd hoped for them, it's looked different from what my rosey imagination first dreamed, but 2012 tomorrow will find me doing exactly, and predictably, what I've been doing for all the previous years...trying to get the job done in spite of some pretty scary, impressive odds.

Evelyn's Visit

2011-12-31T09:53:00.003-05:00

Nothing I hate more than saying goodbye to my favorite handsome brother-in-law and my gorgeous with a capital G, and an exclamation mark (!) niece.

Vanessa and Evelyn came from Alabama, so that's a welcome distraction, and the kids are hounding me for more groceries right this minute, so I'm taking a buncha them with me while four are at Driver's ED, planning to blog later. Sarah's posted twice again while I've been lax at it.

Gina farted around with us yesterday, it's been a nice holiday time. Kevin and I went to see Moneyball, and, Oh. My. Goodness. Best baseball movie ever.

Amelia's Quiet Time

2011-12-30T08:48:00.005-05:00

A couple of beautiful warm days ahead, preceding a cold front that'll find me inside the house, activating Plan B which is repainting walls, choosing my chores by the weather forecast.

Four teenagers have two more days of Driver's Ed, a couple of them and Lauren, my beautiful niece, traipsed down to Yolie's to watch The Help last night.

I'd driven to Florida and back, down to Macon and back twice within a week, plus out to where Jonathan stays only to find myself emotionally exhausted last night. Driving is such a tense non-relaxing activity. I could work outside all day long and not be half as tired as I am after driving.

A lady I've known since high school posted this article, The Joy of Quiet, on Facebook and I so agree. Ironically published in The New York Times. New York City being one of the loudest and most wired places on earth. I crave peace and quiet.

Our woods, the tree filled oasis that surround our land is awash in no color. I don't relish a thousand shades of greys and browns, the only green being in the pines, cedars and bamboo plants, that's so not enough for me.

Having spent the last 17 years unable to have cash, not even a quarter on hand, nor able to leave my pocketbook unattended, even groceries and all drugstore items were in a constant state of peril, nowadays with my last dozen kids at home, it's startlingly different in a very good way.

Few clashes, if anything there's an almost palpable sense of 'uh-oh almost grown, better think seriously about options' kind of mindset.

I'm enjoying our life so much at the moment although I'm very emotionally exhausted, laid low, slaughtered, wiped out from the unrelenting stress of the previous two decades. Lord Have Mercy, has it taken a toll on me, or what?

I'm slap worn out.

Macon And Back

2011-12-29T17:07:00.004-05:00

If one gets up around five in the morning, one can get to Macon and back, 200 miles round trip, in order to take Paloma's birthday presents to her, plus two dozen doughnuts for her to share there with friends and staff. Now 15, up and down emotionally, still struggling, I was glad I'd made the superhuman effort to go see her.

My 12 kids at home were irked, thinking about the many birthdays they've tried to enjoy that she tried equally hard to ruin back then, to have Mom leaving them on a holiday break seemed cruel. Grandma babysat, and I was home before lunch.

My favorite brother-in-law, and his lovely daughter, have arrived for a couple of days, making my world seem right.

And that Preston? What a score.

Southern Exposure

2011-12-28T17:54:00.002-05:00

And as grouchy as I was today when I blogged this morning, it's been an equally good turn around day.

Nothing like reading every single word in my Southern Exposure Seed Exchange Catalog.

Winter Solstice

2011-12-28T17:51:00.002-05:00

Sarah blogged yet again, maybe tomorrow she'll share about the incredible new cookbook she was blessed with unexpectedly today.

That Alone Has Been Exhausting

2011-12-28T07:59:00.005-05:00

I keep finding pithy statements on Facebook that leave me pondering.

Jeepers, if that was a migraine, I need to be more empathetic to those who routinely suffer like that. It was about a 48 hour bout that made me wanna hurl, however by nightfall, after Tabby'd been hollering, "I sure do miss Bodie food," after nearly a week of restaurants and crappy fast food, I made black beans and brown rice, spread on fried corn tortillas in my big black skillet, with pepper jack cheese, tomatoes, sour cream and...drum roll...The Cure which came in the form of my Fire Hot Pepper Sauce.

Like a blanket-covered rocket ship to my brain, it literally and immediately sand-blasted the pain slap outta there.

"Wow," Martin noticed, "You already look like you feel better," as they'd been tiptoeing round my very grumpy, cross-eyed, whiny self all day long.

Or maybe it was the mail. The Two Gardeners? Thank you, dear Pat. I love it. I read your Christmas Card news aloud to Grandma as your two daughters are doing exactly what had thoroughly aggravated me here just a few years ago. I told my mom that I'd had a very hard time forgiving that major slight.

Forgiveness?

Good darn thing I'm a Christian, or I'd have an overly tough time getting past some of the awfully stinging hatefulness. As it is, I'm barely recovering. Maybe that was one thing I didn't take into consideration within a large family. Where I once thought it meant more love, what I found was that it only meant more resentful hate, as traumatized children can't/don't/won't show love to the woman who they think stole them from their birth parents.

It's been brutal.

Thank God for therapy that has allowed me to step back and comprehend that it isn't about me at all, it's deep within them.

It's why I don't really reach out to many grown kids, knowing how often I've been slapped in the head and kicked in the teeth, why would I risk that?

I accept phone calls, but initiating them has become too hazardous to my health. I'd like to live longer for those that truly do love me. I thank God for them.

Watching some National Geographic (I think) show on women who work in the prison system, one deputy remarked, "Nearly a third of our inmates are mentally ill. They're particularly difficult to deal with every day."

Duh? Try living with them, and you have no taser, no gun, no self defense.

Try keeping everyone else safe at the same time.

"If you don't respect me, I won't respect you," an inmate wearing the color that designates 'mentally ill' yelled at a guard wearing a uniform, the irony totally escaping her.

How does one respect an orange-wearing, law-breaking, assault-mongering, profane crackhead thief?

Why do young people nowadays not comprehend that respect is something that must be earned first?

I've had that issue here also as a screaming, spitting, window breaking rager starts yelling about everyone in the house ignoring them. No, Honey, that's disengaging, as engaging would only increase the violent behaviors by giving you an irrational rationale in your muddled mind.

There's no logic present at all. Nowhere, no how. Nothing. Nada.

It is seriously scary to behold.

It's how Mayra and Sabrina ended up looking in a closet that an offender had attacked, cutting up their clothes because she resented them simply for being pretty and normal.

The term 'repeat offender' itself illustrates a lack of an ability to learn from a consequence.

Nowadays, looking back in astonishment, how did I survive? How did I muster up enough strength to try and deal with the constant rage, larceny, destruction, fury, and completely irrational behaviors?

"We spend more time talking prospective parents out of specific kids than in encouraging them to adopt," two different workers have told me lately, knowing what would be up ahead for the clueless parents. Knowing there'd be a disruption, danger, violence and aggression.

Am I just too bitter for words nowadays? Too emotionally damaged? Being on the receiving end of so much animosity for a situation I didn't create, but rather I feel as if I just stupidly tried to help...

John Maxwell tweeted a Robert Louis Stevenson quote, "Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds that you plant.

Well, I dunno, to have seen those sensible, old-school seeds so totally rejected doesn't give me a great deal of hope.

To see those kids entering their 20s unemployed, thuggish, aimless, unambitious, skanky, drunk, pregnant and unmarried, or shacked-up to an equally unfit partner?

Hello?

Logic available anywhere? Can you not look at those who've gone before you and made terrible mistakes that cost them so much?

How is it even possible to be able to teach logic and good choices to folks who resent the parental figure so much? Who want to rebel just to rebel? Who feel as if 'minding someone' is just stupid?

Then later, they want me to fix their mistakes? The very mistakes I'd warned them about. The ones they screamed, "I don't care!" to me about?

How is it even fixable? These are natural consequences.

What would then be learned from me enabling someone?

And if I'm your problem, as you screamed at me for years, then shouldn't your life then be better without me? For your sake I sure hope so, but logic and experience tells me otherwise.

Are there any answers anywhere? Any remedies for my own frustration? Cures for my own resentment? How can I be pleasant to those who've been so awful to the only woman who ever tried to help? Who tried for years and years and years...for nothing?

The best I can do is to forgive, and that alone has been exhausting.

I Saw Normal People

2011-12-27T08:49:00.004-05:00

In the grand scheme of things, in the big picture of adoption, I so often hear, "I bet those children of yours are so happy to have you!"

Are you freaking kidding me?

I represent the grievous loss of their birth mother.

If not for me, in their minds, they could be with her.

I'm the problem.

It took me years to comprehend that one consideration.

And, to some degree, I totally agree with them in that if I'd lost my own mother, I'd likely despise the next one. She'd have been nothing but an impostor.

"But your mother took good care of you. Their mother(s) were druggies, drunks, neglectful, abusive, blah, blah, blah."

Doesn't matter. Good or bad, they loved their mothers.

So to like me, to ever express gratitude that, at least now they can live with their siblings and have food on the table, would be to acknowledge the depths of what they think they have lost.

I get it.

I really, really do.

And here comes the big but....

Goodness gracious, if not gratitude or appreciation, can we just shut up?

The continuous attempts of making me pay for all good deeds gets very, very old.

Three of them nearly made me lose my mind. One had a major PMS case going on, nasty, mean behavior bubbling, another was just fussy to the nth degree, and the third was stuck on snarling aggravation with a capital A.

I'd check my rear view mirror, seeing glares from eyes that should've been thankful.

I was trying to drive the ten hours home in terrible traffic with an unusual for me headache. Ten hours of the incessant ugly bickering felt like a knife in my brain being twisted. I nearly barfed from the pain.

I was simmering with resentment.

All the money I spent making sure everyone had a great time?

I dreamed instead... I shoulda taken a cruise all by myself.

I saw normal people in Florida. Happy families with unsnarling children. Children who wake up smiling at their moms, who have it made, but don't know it at all. Children who don't break windows nor smash in walls.

My dogs were happy to see me. Shatter was so beside herself with ecstasy that she cried. She never cries, she was doing her best to be a lap dog, which also isn't her usual M.O.

Martin thanked me a lot, CW was sweet all week long as was Lily and Jack, but then they usually are, having been nurtured since birth. Allen and JoJo were unusually good also. Scotty was very helpful to Grandma. Most of the kids now living with me are usually very good, but holidays are still iffy.

Yesterday morning before we left, I walked the beach, looking at all the people who don't have to deal with what I chose to deal with, nobody forced me to do this, it was my own 100% freewill choice..

Re-entry sucks.

Through Nando's Eyes

2011-12-26T07:23:00.002-05:00

Somehow the early childhood trauma did not damage Nando's ability to enjoy himself, nor his innate curiosity at the world.

Sometimes the younger children are spared, or at least, less damaged, as the older children absorb the emotional or physical blows back in their birth families and through foster care.

Nando loves life, he's very popular amongst his peers, very curious, a really good kid overall, and this trip has been amazing for him. Born down here in Manatee County, we found a Manatee viewing station near Apollo Beach, where Nando literally was glued to all the information, especially in the education center there. He's this way at home also, often exploring outside, questioning me about everything, and just loving life.

It's very refreshing especially after so many years of dealing with children with severe mental and emotional issues - or even from oppositional behaviors that can be so trying, or the level of anxiety that is exacerbated by children who won't even allow their own selves to enjoy life.

This trip has been particularly easy, no squabbling, contained excitement and very appropriate behavior. I'd met a nice lady from Maryland who complimented my children at breakfast one day.

I don't get a lot of that, certainly never got it when kids would be raging in public, heck we're rarely out in public except for the soccer fields and church, but it felt nice this week to appear so normal and to have so much fun.

My Least Stressful Christmas Ever

2011-12-25T20:39:00.002-05:00

Sarah blogged, Tony took this photo of me, and Lisa's daughter J just about made me cry too.

The Way Christmas Should Be

2011-12-25T07:54:00.001-05:00

Well this is getting right predictable of us, isn't it?

82 degrees the other day at Busch Gardens in Tampa, Florida. I wandered around absolutely crazy in love with the tropical lushness of the plants, even a display of Swiss Chard used as decorations. One of the best amusement parks I've ever seen. My kids were thrilled, had a blast, behaved, and were grateful.

Nando was so excited over all the animals, we petted kangaroos, he's obsessed with reptiles and amphibians, this park was hugely interesting for us all, plus there was some seven or so roller coasters for my older boys to get their adrenaline rush.

We've buzzed a few beaches, and cleared out our winter doldrums, even though it's not really gotten cold yet in Georgia. Florida is a magical place for me, when they're grown I plan to spend 6 weeks straight here, maybe mid December until late January, hopefully returning in time to get my seeds planted indoors, albeit a bit late.

Hotels.com got us amazingly cheap rates, plus the economy sucks so prices are slashed. I budgeted accordingly, we're eating a lot of sandwiches. Our amazing Christmas Angels sent gift cards to each kid still living at home, we'll (they'll) shop the after-Christmas sales, more bang for their buck. I'll tend to the grandchildren, how cool is this? I am past grateful.

We went to the town in which two of my children were born, facing down their past, empowering them to some degree, it takes away their fear of the unknown, the forgotten, the repressed memories. "Hey," they'll usually exclaim, "I remembered this to be bigger/badder/more threatening."

A trip eliminates the post-Holiday letdown quite a bit, memories last for a lifetime. I have a bunch of kids grinning and happy this morning.

Cut Costs

2011-12-24T06:34:00.005-05:00

From Len Penzo Dot Com - $40,000 - Money American Airlines saved in 1987 by eliminating an olive from its salad garnish. (That’s almost $76,000 in current-year dollars.)

Stuff like that, random, but a very fascinating statistic illustrates to me how easy it is to cut costs. What if everyone did that? If American Airlines had done more of that, they wouldn't be in dire straits now.

I saw some dumb add about a car lot or a store, or something else, trying to entice buyers with the word 'prestige'.

Yeah?

That'll denote prestige?

Owing money?

I don't think so.

I'm not impressed by stuff, I'm impressed by the many people I see around me who are slogging through life, trying to keep their heads above water, but doing so with inner strength, firm resolve, and immense integrity.

This is a concept I'm having a tough time getting through to many of my kids.

"That's old school," they'll sneer.

They're more impressed by someone's rims, even though I explain to them that likely those young folks with expensive car accessories either owe money, are paid for by wealthy or deeply indebted parents, or maybe are drug dealers.

In today's economy, discretionary income is depleted, it's nearly nonexistent.

My severely oppositional 14 year old is so dang clueless as to be comical. Even though some days when I'm dumb enough to get sucked in to someone who thinks arguing is fun...then I present an excellent case for logic. only to again realize he argues with, and about, everything. What's wrong with me? A failing memory?

Life's hard enough when one strives to do right all the time, even if only in the hope that the old adage is true regarding hard work paying off, but to constantly struggle with teenagers and their media influenced skewed logic is laughable.

A reader commented yesterday that they'd just spent six months reading through my archives. To me it demonstrates someone on a quest for information. Was she an adoptive parent? Looking for commiseration, or a prospective one that I hopefully didn't scare off?

My own personal quests involve anything horticulturish, an interest I've been consumed with for some 40 years now. How come I'd never before read Ten Acres Enough? Published in the late 1800s, it's intriguing.

The Wonderous Gingerbread House

2011-12-23T05:35:00.004-05:00

Is this not the coolest gingerbread house? Sarah'd picked it up for us since her own library book on hold had come in, she's such a librarian's daughter.

The house is so big, sharing with as many grandbabies as is possible, but Mae's fighting a stomach bug, Tabby's blown away by the whole thing. Usually at school they've made houses out of milk cartons and graham crackers, nothing this elaborate has ever been imagined. Thank you, Ms Carr, with an unillustrated exclamation mark, the emphasis is obvious.

When I'd taken Jonathan shopping, he was required by his facility to show receipts for everything. "Dern, Mom," he told me, "The sheriff has to come out here just about every day for some kid nutting up. Stealing's the least of the issues here."

He'd tried to generously give his own facility gift card to Chuy, he'd been told it wasn't allowed, then I got home and was looking in my pocketbook for something like a chap stick only to discover Jonathan'd stuck it inside there. Uh-oh. Chuy, his own birth brother, hadn't even gone on the expedition with us, fussing that it'd take all day and if Jonathan wanted to see him, then Jonathan shoulda acted better when he lived with us.

"Wow, that's very understanding of you," I sarcastically remarked, which reminded me after I'd recently told Scotty, "Thank you Captain Obvious," when he'd butted in some adult conversation between Grandma and I, to point out that which we were already looking at right then.

"Ouch, Sargent Sarcastic," Cw put in his own two cents worth.

This is so much better than me typing about rages, or explosions at Christmas, like the time several years ago when I'd gotten a busted lip, standing there with blood dripping on the rug, both my worried parents in tears, shocked to see me like that, Chuck barrelling through my house to take the offenders out on the back deck for a loud lecture. I don't even remember who'd called him, I just know someone else, another kid, had run to get Grandma and Grandpa to help, because they were so worried to have seen me banged up on the floor.

The combatants not meant to hit me, I just got hit trying to separate them. I was collateral damage. Some melee had sprung up between the two of them, something unimportant, but that wasn't their point. They're overly aggressive on good days, destructive as crap on holidays. That culmination of Holiday Hell nearly sent me over the ledge.

Anyone really wonder why I don't send out cheery Christmas cards? Seriously?

I just grit my teeth and get us through it all.

Winter Solstice

2011-12-22T05:42:00.002-05:00

The first day of winter, a high of 70 degrees, a 300 mile round trip yesterday to see both Jonathan and Paloma at separate facilities, take 'em both shopping for Christmas, 7 other kids with me, plus the three Yorkies.

We're 12.3 inches short of rainfall this year. That sucks.

Ms Carr bought 24 Gingerbread House Raffle Tickets, putting Tabby's name on every single one of them at the county library, yeahboy, Tabby won. Ms. Carr's sister called to tell me when I was standing in front of the lock down psychiatric facility after reassuring the staff member who'd accidentally left a red mark on Paloma, while trying to stop her from hurting herself.

"I appreciate your help in maintaining her behaviors," I reassured the staff member, no doubt used to mothers who scream, "You hurt my kid," when that same kid had been dangerously raging. Paloma admitted throwing the first punch at a staffer.

Who hits people?

She had a bruise on her arm also. She's blessed that they stopped her from cutting herself with the broken mirror.

I'm so grateful for the help I could've hugged this lady.

I can't do it anymore, I just can't. I can't face down a violent rager, there's been too many years of this, too much damage, and I'm sweating bullets to provide a safe haven for my last dozen children at home.

"You're one fistfight away from a broken hip," my osteopathic physician has warned me, raggedy ole white ladies get osteo-arthritis, brittle bones, aching joints. "Don't try and stop a fight anymore," she'd warned me. "You'll end up in a cast, or worse."

I can't let 'em just fight. I can't. That's neglect.

That said, I am now living with a pretty calm bunch of teenagers and I'm so grateful that I'm practically drooling on myself with relief. I mean I really have a great bunch of teens right now, loud, fun, opinionated and very loving.

When oppositional kids grow up and move out, taking their anger and constant arguments with them, I'm just not sad at all.

I'm tired.

Tired of being their kicking post, tired of them oppositionally arguing with me about every point of logic possible. I'm tired of being treated so rudely and disrespectfully. Bye-bye now.

I breathe deep sighs of relief, certain I've done all I could for so many years to impart wisdom, to have given them structure and stability, nurturing, nutrition, love and concern, only to usually have it flung back in my face.

Ok, I'm done, I'm out, hope everything works out beautifully for you. I'll continue to pray for blessing and safety for you.

I'll quietly shuffle around here realizing with surprise that I like the sound of folks not screaming at me.

"I didn't think you, or DJJ, meant it," Jonathan told me. "I didn't believe you guys at all. I didn't believe Pathways, Dr. Mandy, the deputies, the teachers, Dr. Williams, I didn't believe anyone."

"You didn't see this happening to Paloma or Pepe?" I asked in disbelief. He'd been hanging onto my shadow for years, watching my every move, practically stalking me all day every day.

"Yeah, I did," he told me. "I just really didn't think it'd happen to me."

"You thought you could skip school for months, attack and assault people, defy your probation officer, thumb your nose at the judge, and there'd be no consequence?"

"Nope."

"Then how will authority figures ever get through to you?"

"I dunno," he said. "I dunno."

I believe him too.

A windshield wiper flew off the van that'd just cost me $468 in repairs, it was raining to beat the band, I turned into a Walmart Auto Center that fortunately had no line, allowing me to get two new wipers slapped on, while I tried to manage Jonathan's behaviors out in public. He was absolutely perfect. I was grateful.

"I've been awful to you, Nando," he told my very suspicious, nearly paranoid ten year old Nando. "I'm sorry, and here's a teddy bear."

Nando handled it as gingerly as if he'd been handed a python, figuring this was a trap.

Honey, I know the feeling. I really do.

This story isn't just going away, This could've been my house. We don't have machetes, but we have an axe, this is a farm, we have tools, Duh.

I've had the deputies here many times for our safety.

Williams' story highlights a lack of resources for those with mental illnessess, Bill Kissel, president of Georgia's branch of the National Alliance on Mental Illness, told Channel 2 Action News.

Harris said she has been trying to get more help for Dawntrae, who had been diagnosed with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and ADHD.

Monday was the second time in less than a week that officers arrived at the Windward Gate Lane home, which borders Hall County. In the two months since Williams has lived in Georgia, officers in both Gwinnett and Hall counties have been called to the home to handle the teen's outbursts, police said.

On Dec. 13, Hall County deputies and firefighters were sent to the home after Williams allegedly took prescription medication belonging to a sibling and hit his grandmother with a pool cue. Williams was taken to the hospital that night in a patrol car, Sgt. Stephen Wilbanks with the Hall County Sheriff's Office told the AJC.

Monday afternoon, Williams' therapist came to the home to counsel the teen, who became enraged over a disagreement with the woman.

This is such a familiar story to me, a pattern, a truth in parenting mentally ill teenagers that most folks don't believe is even possible.

There is NOTHING scarier.

They Were So Worth It ALL

2011-12-21T06:04:00.004-05:00

...obtained a chilling 911 tape from police that gives insight into the 20 minutes before Williams was shot by police. Harris said a therapist was in the home for a session with her grandson when he became violent. They called 911 hoping to get the teen admitted to a psychiatric hospital.

“Dawntree put the machete down, Dawntree stop, Dawntree!” the teen’s therapist yelled into the phone.

“He has a machete in his hand and he’s trying to hit us with the machete,” the caller told the operator.

This is from our local news and I can't get this scenario off my mind. Another article claims he'd just recently moved in with his Grandma. I'd sure like to know the rest of the story.

I'm guessing the therapists might either be Pathways or Advantage, both local or metro agencies we've used here in our home, wonderful therapists who know their stuff, and by coming into the home, have a bird's eye view of the family dynamics that might not get scrutinized, nor understood as carefully, as in an office setting.

This had a tragic outcome, the grandmother is disputing the police officer's accounts, but I'm sure her mind is muddied by grief.

I've been deathly afraid of such an occurrence here, this is one of the reasons I'm not so pro-adoption as I once was, when children have been identified as severely mentally ill, I find it shocking that there is not more immediate help for the very desperate, frightened families.

I got a call last night that my almost 15 year old had raged violently in her psychiatric lockdown facility. They let me know that restraints were used, as well as a cocktail of atavan and benadryll, they needed my permission to add Depakote to her already impressively mongo psychotropic regimen.

She'd ripped a security mirror off the wall, shattered it, threatened herself and others, and my mind reeled as the nurse described the fracas that had ensued. Apparently she and another girl had been building up to detonate. I've been there, I know the shock and the fright, the immense rage fueled by her super-human adrenaline when she is so irrationally furious, and the murderous actions. It is awful to behold, worse still if younger children witness it, or fear for their mom's safety.

As I write these words, my heart is pounding within my chest from the remembered PTSD.

I know I've made a good call by humbling, or humiliating, myself and asking, literally begging, CPS for help. i know I can NOT keep her safe, nor protect the rest of us. A staff is having a tough go of it, and they are professionally trained to deal with such explosions. She's been kicked out of two facilities that are well-trained, but unable to also keep her and others safe. Oh Honey, I understand.

I spent nine and a half years trying to cope. All those years seeking all sorts of help. Any single one of those nine and a half years was too much, cumulatively I'm shattered on the inside from the utter, unrelenting stress of it all.

There's no way on this earth do I feel, after years of experience, that she could safely be maintained within our home. Are you freaking kidding me?

I deeply grieve for her future. When I watch Cops, or America's Most Wanted, or any crime show, particularly those where the camera is capturing the psychotic rages of a criminal, I cringe within, having witnessed those behaviors first hand.

I feel so sad and helpless about it all. It's not an "I told you so,' moment. I look deep in her her very beautiful eyes, she's a very lovely girl, and I see her own fright at her own actions, her lack of self-control, and I grieve hard for her. I've also seen the violent, nearly murderous rages, and the abject fear in my other children during those times.

It's nothing, but deeply heartbreaking, overall.

Her brother, also in a facility, is doing very well, not showing the behaviors he demonstrated here for so long, but I'm not that surprised, as his RAD makes him more comfortable in a less family-like setting, Even our minimal family expectations grated on him, causing him to hurt others, destroy property, refuse to attend school, and to rage. The external controls where he now is, was what he needed.

I want him to do well, even without me. I don't care if others think I'm to blame. "See how well he does without you?" I might be pointedly asked...as if me, not the RAD, drove his negative actions? Blame me if you want, just get him the help he needs.

This will be our first Christmas without a severely emotionally ill child here, hellbent on ruining everything. There'll be no screaming at me for buying all the stuff, there'll be no meltdowns, well no terribly violent ones, still I have some righteously angry kids. By righteously I mean justifiably. I'd be angry also had my birth parents not raised me. I understand that, I truly do.

On a lighter note, Daniel's walking me through improving the blog's readability on smartphones. I was stoopidly thicker'n a phone book yesterday as he tried to explain, then later distracted by the demands here at home, with Christmas it might take me a few days to do as he carefully and slowly explained to this fake blonde. That's why I adore this man so much. He's so dang cool, so smart and sooooooo patient with me, his techno-stunted mama. My future daughter-in-law, Megan, is more blessed than she can possibly imagine.

I was just thinking 'bout how he singlehandedly, with no help from me, back when he was probably still in middle school or early high school, he'd had me buy what he needed to make the tail lights on my then ole 1983 truck work when pulling a utility trailer. How'd he know how to do that? Who's born knowing all that stuff? I'm telling you, he's amazing, he's innately gifted, and he makes me very pro-adoption, thinking 'bout what I'd have missed out on with him, had I not adopted.

Wait a minute, I ran a bunch of my very darling grown kids through my mind just now. The huge majority of them, almost all of them, were, and are, so very worth it. Smart, emotionally together, successful adults who've blessed me so much by their very existence.

Yeahboy. I'd do it again in a New York minute.

Fearful of Fun

2011-12-20T06:55:00.006-05:00

Our weather remains gorgeous, very warm afternoons in which our trampoline is the place to be, a conduit for discharging one's energy after a tediously long school day. My pretty grandbaby, Alyssa, now age seven, was down to a tank top due to her exertions. Yolie'd babysat here in order to allow me to attend the funeral of Lisa's dad.

There was a police shooting being blasted on the media last night, not much said about it this morning, other than a 15 year old with mental and emotional issues had threatened his family with a machete. Police were called, the boy charged at them, and he was fatally shot.

Neighbors saying the kid was well-behaved...like they've ever lived with such a threat?

Sad to say, I can so visualize an incident like this, having lived through incredibly severe trauma over the last several years, sometimes having to lock my very frightened younger kids up over on Grandma's side of the house, they'd nervously play games, fretting over me, while I tried to tend to murderous threats and actions here.

I remember my very elderly and frail father trying to prevent a stabbing of me one afternoon, fortunately the deputies were here in time. Even more fortuitous was an even more disturbed older son then trying also to protect me from the younger enraged one. I'd have been dead otherwise.

After all this, is it any wonder I'm now ultra-wary of human contact? I feel emotionally threatened so easily nowadays. I dive down into my hard outer shell.

Is it any wonder that isolation and solitude deeply appeals to me? My social withdrawal has been very pronounced.

That insomnia plagues me? That food tastes like dust sometimes? Or that my digestive system balks?

Right now, fortunately, I live with a very safe bunch of loud and rambunctious teenagers. Oppositional Defiant Disorder is the only real threat to family harmony, and after years of violence, this is a piece of cake in comparison. It might drive others to drink, but for me, after all I've been through? Not so much.

Those who'd raged during holidays, year after year, are not now living with us, allowing my children a tremendous sense of normalise that we've been deprived of for so long.

I only live with one severe case of ODD, and I've learned to live with it, after 11 years of an entire sibling group having this diagnosis. They even argue at the results of psych evals, that clearly indicate the severity of what I'm encountering, and trying to help them ascertain resources. I just disengage, knowing nothing I say will make a difference. Nothing. Nothing will penetrate, so why argue? Let it go.

"I'm so glad you understand that concept," I'd recently been told by a therapist, when another son was in a facility. "So many parents will balk, go iron-fisted, will stubbornly stand their ground, unbudgingly, insist on being right, and try to force the child to concede - when it is just not gonna happen, when their neurons do not, nor cannot, connect."

Well I do understand, but it's taken me many years to get to this point. Years ago I would've called it 'giving up or non-parenting'. I would've wailed that it didn't teach the kids how to live in the real world.

But if being jailed many times for various misdemeanors doesn't teach some folks, how do I expect logical, wordy explanations to do so?

Words only escalate a bad situation into a ridiculous rationale, in their minds, for violent aggression.

It doesn't make sense to logical human beings, but it is what it is. It really is as thus.

How do I then explain, in my last sibling group adoption, four children who'd been severely traumatized...why do they not act out terribly? How did their neurons manage to form properly? Is it resilience or a higher IQ? I don't know.

There's a lot I don't know, and I keep searching for answers and explanations, keys to human behavior, antidotes, anecdotes, resources and comprehension. Not an easy row to hoe, nor to plow, but plodding along is the only way.

The time stamp here only indicates the time in which I started typing, obviously not the constant interruptions, nor does it indicate I've already been up to the high school twice, delivering what was forgotten here on an exam day. I could've said, "Tough toenails. I'm not bringing it. This'll teach you to try and remember," a technique that might've worked on teenagers with normal neural patterns.

A thousand years ago when Sarah was my only child, an organized child of a working single mom, she didn't have the luxury of calling me to bring what she'd forgotten. Cell phones weren't invented then, nor could I have left my job to tend to forgetfulness. Sarah's turned out to be a strong, organized, fully functioning wife, mother and accounting business owner since she was never enabled nor allowed to make lame excuses. She didn't need to, she'd been nurtured since birth, and therein lies a huge, almost insurmountable, difference.

And oddly enough, Nando has melted down, dissolved into tears, stressed over a Holiday Party at school which I know is not The Real Issue. Holidays, referred to here as Holiday Hell, after years and years of me gaily trying to make it fun, only to eventually comprehend that all their old fears and memories crippled them at this time, they wouldn't allow themselves to have fun, fearful of enjoyment, paralyzed by their insecurities, nervous, emotionally rattled and very discombobulated.

Nando's experiencing a small dose of it today, a residual aftereffect of his own past trauma. I held him and let him cry it out, the lack of structure at school today and The Party makes him insecure. Other students find it fun and liberating, it scares Nando.

We've since, in the years he's been with us, made our own traditions that he helped select. He does know that he can count on me, yet he, too, had his emotional scabs ripped off lately by supposedly well-meaning folks who re-traumatized him.

Stopwatch Mama

2011-12-19T06:25:00.005-05:00

My one daughter-in-law, Lena, is married to Jesse, a wonderful well-adjusted son of mine. One whose childhood was horrific, not joining our family until he was 12 and a half, but who has spent the next two decades making me so very proud of him. He's a marvelous husband and great father to Isaiah.

I spend most of my time acting like a stopwatch, "Five minutes til time to go!" I holler every morning at 7:20. I've always given them 15 minutes updates as well. I always do. JoJo will stand in front of a clock and yell for me, "How long til we have to go Mom?"

Five minutes before our regularly scheduled departure to church yesterday, we always leave at 8:45 a.m., we always do so, nothing changes, we have stability and a schedule, but at the five minute warning Chuy defiantly passed by me to get into the shower.

I said nothing, obviously he was brewing within, stewing for a rationale to melt down. He must've gotten up on the wrong side of the bed, his panties in a wad, someone peed in his oatmeal, choose a cliche, I didn't want to give him one. Drama bores me.

We loaded up, no Chuy, no JoJo, I went back inside, heard the shower running, and JoJo predictably hollering to no one about nothing, just fussing. Oppositional Defiant Disorder in full bloom.

I got into the van, irked, knowing if I bothered to quietly explain to either one of them that punctuality is so important, they'd, especially JoJo, flat-out meltdown and scream argumentatively. That his aggression is greatly lessened should be enough for me, a victory certainly for him, but knowing that folks get fired for this one thing, prompts me to continue mentioning the extreme importance of being on time.

I left Chuy home alone. At 16 and with a high IQ one might think he could process this natural consequence, right? I hope so. He pointedly ignored me the rest of the day though.

I simply had decided I didn't want to be late. A PK, a Preacher's Kid, myself, I think it shows utter disrespect to the Preacher to wander in late.

I think late is rude.

After church, Grandma decided to organize a van cleaning party of volunteers only, which spurred Tony, Sabrina, Scotty, Tabby and Nando out to help, while CW kept toting heavy laundry baskets for me, Gina took Lily for the afternoon, and I completely, single-mindedly worked on my nonstop, never ever ending paint job(s).

This morning, walking through the house before anyone got up I was stuck by how nice it is now, with no one trashing the joint just to piss me off. My office has taken so many kicks in the walls from Jonathan back in his truancy days, 25-30 large holes, now covered with beadboard on the bottom, plaster on the top, sanded and ready for painting, but then I gotta move on to repair the adjacent bedroom, as he'd totally destroyed it as well.

I remember a $2,000 window repair job a couple of years ago when I had so many very violent kids breaking windows...just because.

I couldn't consequence them, it'd just make them rage more, temper dysregulation in action, deputies would be called, behaviors documented, but to no avail overall. I'd stand there sad and helpless. One is in prison now for failing to contain his severe anti-social behaviors, but the very sad aspect is that he just can't do so. He truly can't. This is what mental illness looks like.

It is just so very, very sad.

What if I went to someone's home and created such vandalism and destruction? Well, duh, I'd be arrested. In the adoption of older, emotionally ill children, one's home is an immediate casualty. One's self takes a severe beating too.

By nightfall Grandma drug out the Rummicbes, both because she loves to play and also because she was babysitting while I went to the Funeral Home to pay my respects to Lisa's dad. Yes, I need a babysitter in a home with 9 teenagers who, in the real world, could be paid to babysit somewhere, but in my world, supervision is always needed.

I was only gone an hour and a half, itchy and squirming in my monkey suit, but upon returning I found Grandma, Tabby, Nando and Scotty were still engrossed in Rummicubes.

Sarah'd ridden there with me, me again mumbling about how many funerals I seem to have attended over the recent years, but at 57, that number will only continue to grow. Lisa and her husband, Tracy, have long been mentors, supporters, spiritual counselors...so much to both Sarah and I for 30 years now, which is obviously most of Sarah's entire life.

My house is very slowly, since it is very DIY, improving. The vandalism and abject destruction has nearly ceased, which is an incredible relief. I'm very tempted to just sell this entire place in ten years, completely rid myself of it, and the sad memories of my own trauma endured while simply trying to help children who didn't want to be helped, indeed those who routinely punished me for ever even trying, leaving me fighting bitterness certainly, and a sense of wasting so many long, difficult, fruitless years, when I see them grow up and not break the engrained self-destructive patterns or a genetic predisposition to violence and chaos.

They HATED my old school rules regarding no stealing, no assaulting, no lying and maybe the worst one of all, "Hard work pays off!" I'd cheerily state to dead eyes.

Wow.

I remain flattened and stunned.

Most of them are now on their own, not doing so great either, since they still hate the old school rules that polite society apparently requires of everyone in order to be even mildy successful.

I don't really want to sell and leave my gardens, not after all this work, so I'm sloooooooowly transforming everything with brow sweat, hard labor, and elbow grease, wanting everything to change, no reminders of what I, and we've, endured so painfully.

Big, big changes.

Me learning strong breathing in place of ever succumbing to anti-depressants, blasting uncool, happy hillbilly praise and worship music through my Ipod to clean out my bitter, sad brain. I'm eating, as usual, only those foods that are very rich in nutrients, still able to eat more'n a ton a day, my metabolism is still very high due to my constant activity.

I want to regain my once very happy-go-lucky, optimistic, incredibly goofy personality. I've always been strong, and I wanna see that in myself again.

Another Lisa, the one I so admire, wrote a great post about success with a very difficult child. Add a cute doggie to the story and it's right moving.

Boxing Arenas

2011-12-18T06:38:00.005-05:00

The windowish looking ledge between the dining room and eating part of the kitchen used to be a window to the patio before I'd added on years ago. Instead of walling it up, I'd left the opening, increasing my visibility throughout the heavily traveled areas of our home, that of the large kitchen, living room, dining room and family room. There's no such thing as too much supervision around here. The missing kitchen chairs had been moved to the boxing viewing arena.

While four teenagers were at their Driver's Ed class, I'd been invited to a Bridal Shower of the daughter of my friend, Beth. They live in our small community, go to our church, I've known the bride-to-be almost all her life plus generations of her family, yet I've noticed a blossoming case of social anxiety emerging within me. I showered, found a sweater that wasn't black, a red one I'd had since I used to go to Virginia for Christmases before my sister passed away and gritted my teeth, squared my shoulders and forged on ahead.

"You look ummmm nice?" CW searched for words, very surprised to see me not wearing my black sweatpants uniform. "Where in the world are you going?"

I had to force myself out the door. I feel like a socially challenged impostor, not one who'll be bubbly or even fun to be with. A Debbie Downer Doll is who I am, crushed on the inside from all the crap that's been dumped upon me for so long.

I, of course, had fun. I always do when I force myself to go somewhere. Her youngest daughter, Jami, between CW and Lily's age, beautifully hosted the affair, and I totally enjoyed myself until Sabrina called that it was time to come get them. Grandma was babysitting, Chuck and Yolie babysat later while I ran to town to get the wireless booster and USB adaptors to get two more cobbled together computers functioning in our house while I had Chuck's expertise to get it done.

Allen's been begging for some boxing gloves, so I obliged. I got some very cushioned, lightweight ones. Our sweet friend Michael came by, bringing food, but like my older sons, there's something about our home that brings out one's inner Bubba, so Michael boxed with Scotty for a few minutes. I think it was Allen videotaping it, using my phone, dadgum I'm so impressed with the Iphone's abilities.

Behind Musician's Warehouse, where CW and Lily had asked to go to get some more guitar picks, well behind the mall actually, at the same house I've stopped at half a dozen times already, I refilled my truck with nicely bagged leaves and pine straw, smiling happily. Score!

I wanted to go knock on their door and explain that this bagged mixture could be tucked in and around all their foundation shrubs, that it would rot quickly and amend the soil beautifully, while also suppressing weeds and the grievous evaporation of the minuscule rainfall we've had lately. But I didn't, I took them home where they'll rot happily out in my own Big Back Garden areas.

Back at home, Jack was gleefully hanging out with Chuck, under his truck, working on something that required tools and Chuck's attention. Big Joe's Daughter, Alyssa, I refer to her as Jo-Lissa because she is exactly like him, played all afternoon with Tabby.

Such a nice, nice day - the kind of day I'd once imagined every day would be with a large family, me then totally clueless about anger issues, severe emotional problems, trauma and violence. I drug the laundry up to Grandma's machine, did dishes, spread the leaves and pine straw, and simply reveled in a very nice day.

Such Pretty Cousins

2011-12-17T06:01:00.005-05:00

Just because I absolutely one million percent comprehend why my kids lash out, doesn't mean that after decades of it, I can not not stop myself from automatically, figuratively jumping in a fox hole. Sorry 'bout the double negative, I just pound the keyboard, what comes out, comes out.

It's a reflex now.

I totally understand that it's not about me. It's like a dog who's been hit by a car, blinded by pain, biting the helper that tries to rescue it.

My children are furious, and rightly so, at the world, and I'm the available representative target.

I'm the one they feel "safe" to scream out their rage to, I get that.

However I have accessed them all sorts of therapies over the years, knowing they must grow out of this, or all of their relationships, friendships and employment opportunities will be jeopardized forever by their unwillingness or inability to treat others decently.

Most of them do eventually comprehend this simple fact.

Most of them do grow up and manage to lead very decent lives, self-supporting, and gainfully employed.

I, however, have born the brunt of the destructive fury for such a long, long time, that I do wonder how far away the land of 'normal' is?

I've ended two sentences with prepositions, further illustrating my own inability to be grammatically correct, however all Southerners share this annoying trait.

A day so beautiful yesterday that it brought tears to my eyes. 72 degrees in December, and I wallowed in the dirt happily. My haphazard years of gardening, when I only had two minutes with which to pick some produce before dashing back inside to work, or to referee, well, the quack grass diabolically spread insidiously, creeping tenaciously under the heavy mulch, which did suppress it to some point, but more importantly, it has allowed for easier weeding nowadays.

The rhizomes are so relentless though, if I leave a speck, it'll multiply like wharf rats, so I spread it outside the garden and mow it, heartlessly leaving it to dry, to desiccate itself in the blazing sun, to turn to harmless dust.

Reading this very interesting book, it spoke of new farming techniques that recognize the benefits of weeds in the overall eco-diversity world...an interesting concept. I like to weed. Go figure. It's a simple task that gives me immediate visible results, unlike the job of raising righteously angry children.

I awoke with a start from a nightmare regarding an older threatening one. My heart was pounding, my pulse racing. I came downstairs, wandered around, all was right within our world, clean zen-like counters that soothe me. Books and plants are my only clutter. This is what I saw.
I opened the laptop to read the news, which just gave me anxiety. I find myself spending less and less time online over the years, for so long, it was my only connection to the world, it still is, but my concern and interest in the real world is diminishing quickly.

A Facebook friend has 50 sacks of oaks leaves, thank you dear Jessica for pointing this out, that I may or may not have the opportunity to go fetch, depends on the availability of Grandma, and the willingness of my older sons to help. She'd spent all afternoon yesterday helping an elderly woman, 20 years her junior, with an eye doctor appointment. Her church circle meeting project.

This morning they, Martin, Sabrina, Chuy and Allen have Driver's Ed again, another 7 hour Saturday class.

I watched some channel-flipping show last night about women in an Ohio jail, the cameras were given full access, interviewing and just filming the intake. The behaviors I witnessed reminded so much of the disturbances I've seen here. It was startlingly similar, the anti-social behaviors and the ugly defiance was shocking. One lady, stating she'd been in that county jail for 406 days on a burglary charge, kept talking about her four children. Where the heck were they? Foster care? Up for adoption? At my house?

After so many years of folks screaming their anger at their birth mothers at me, misdirected but understandable, I literally flinch nowadays at the alarming thought of being around those who've mistreated me for so long. I forgive, of course, but I so deeply prefer solitude, I crave its healing powers. I need niceness and sunshine.

Mr P went Mr P on us last night, I saw it building up, he's dysthymic in his behaviors, the seeming bipolarness is not exactly that, there's not a discernible high, a manic period, nor a corresponding depression low, rather his lows are irritability rather than sadness, a low grade ugliness where he snarls hatefully at everyone.

I disengaged, walking off, not wanting to be in this predictable dance, surprisingly enough, he muttered, "Sorry," within an hour. He growled it actually, not heartfelt, but at least a learned behavior. A necessary one at that if he desires any sort of a decent future where no always present mama serves as his conscience.

My kids stumble so badly at The Legal Age, where they think they can do what they want, without Mama's stupid, square Old School rules. Then they find themselves battling policemen, logic, the Laws of Gravity, and Cause and Effect, the natural consequences that I'd tried to explain for soooooo long.

My sweet, sweet longtime friend Lisa, lost her father last night. My heart ached when I got the news, knowing exactly the pain of her loss. We all knew this was coming. Yolie and I'd just talked about the joy though, as we'd also known, allowing one's parent to leave this world peacefully, at home, surrounded by loved ones, just as Grandpa'd done. It is so natural, it lessens the shock a bit, I think.

Like me, Lisa had been extraordinarily blessed to have had a loving, supportive father in her life, for all of her life, but that makes the loss so much more profound, but also has given me the strength to go on, knowing that's what Dad would've wanted me to do. I know that Lisa, and her sister, Susan, also will go on, but the loss is major. They're also tending to their dear mother 24-7, as she recovers from serious health issues..

My dad hated seeing the way I was treated so badly by those I only wanted to help. I spent hours explaining to him the whys of this, he did understand though, he'd been a counseling pastor for so long, he knew human behavior, but the complete and utter lack of understanding by my children, the abject rejection of logic, the resentment of me for doing what their birth parents weren't doing, bumfuddled him on many days.

"Don't you children understand?" he'd ask them, trying to help me, trying to convey simple logic to unhearing ears. He'd spend hours trying to reach Jonathan or Paloma, speaking softly, receiving wrath in response. He never understood that the folks he'd once counseled as a pastor, voluntarily came to him asking for help, versus children who'd been taken from their birth parents, not understanding anything, seeing me only as the enemy.

I do understand why they feel this way, I truly do, and I hope someday that this issue is better addressed in adoption readiness counseling. But, is that not a contradiction in terms? Duh.

Us adoptive parents are so weary and beaten down.

Before I was an adoptive parent, I was a school library media specialist, thus the emphasis on books.

Repair Person and Polite Restraint

2011-12-16T06:37:00.006-05:00

"Do you mind letting yourself out?" I politely asked with great restraint, after the not-his-fault washer repairman told me that the pump that'd burned up had taken out several other parts that would need to be ordered and him rescheduled...two weeks from now.

I went outside before I exploded from the stress and frustration. Dude, this is America, overnight the dadgum parts and make this right. This recalled defective pump could've burned my house down. I said none of the above.

I called the Customer Solutions Department with even more self-control, although it was obvious I was upset, we reduced the waiting time by one week, which does very little for a mama who needs to constantly wash clothes. I swanny, Nando rolls in dirt more'n our dogs do. I'm not much better at staying clean.

Fortunately it was a beautiful day again, Marcela brought Marissa over to play, and I had Ray and Hazel for a bit. Hazel stepped in a fire ant pile, ran inside to plunge her foot in the dog water bowl, which didn't stop Shadow from drinking simultaneously. Tony instagraming photos.

We also had Dr. Mandy, who always helps me see the forests for the trees, telling me exactly what would work best in yet another thorny situation involving grown kids who do not want advice, just concern. It's hard to disentangle when one knows that without advice, the concern is greatly merited, But when they are grown, making their own decisions and living with the consequences, the relationship itself might be the only survival mechanism in the end.

I drug the dirty clothes up and over to the second floor of Grandma's attached house, attended Lily's chorus concert that she gave me 8 hours advance notice about, texting me from school, I'd even been questioning her, knowing there was one in December, she is so oblivious to dates and the minutia of life, preferring her guitar and her art. I'm good with that.

Right at dusk, when I could barely see, I remembered I'd not emptied, nor spread, the last three large sacks of leaves and pine needles I'd scored in town where I'd found a neighborhood with some possibly 60 sacks there curbside, waiting for a gleaner such as I. It bothers me that I've not had time to return and fetch the rest, but Lord Have Mercy, have I been overbooked, or what lately?

I spread the bounty over a bed I'd been relentlessly digging in, knowing the predicted rain would pack it down nicely, me gleefully absorbing the warm air on my skin, 70 degrees there at nightfall, it just makes me literally blissful. I inhaled the pine needle scent, listened to the hens clucking and noticed JoJo on the back stoop who surprisingly remarked, "I love this land," something I so often say, hearing him parroting it made me smile. This land that he never works, never, ever, yet if my work on it makes him happy, then that's OK, too.

Three calls from the assistant principal regarding three rude teenagers of mine, acting out from the intrusive, threatening encounters of the past month, angry that there was nothing Mama could do to keep them as 'normal' as they'd like to be. Another reason why I refuse these reality TV offers. My kids don't want to be looked at differently, they wanna just function as normally as possible and they are still very furious regarding nosey people. I'm starting to shake my own irritation off slowly, processing that some folks just don't understand why a woman would've spent the last 40 years as Justamama, with another ten to go until Tabby is grown up.

Yeahboy, 50 years in a row, with kids at home, while some folks are overwhelmed with their 2.5 kid responsibilities, overall I've totally enjoyed my time. I've needed this purpose, this direction, this challenge...and I'll also be just as happy when I face the second half of my life, concentrating on growing fruits and vegetables for the next generation.

My three rude sons all got a day of ISS, the administration at school totally knows I support all policies and procedures, two rude ones have already apologized to me. "You need to apologize to the teachers," I advised.

I'm reading Barnheart - another of my new used books - winter is when I have more time to read, plopping my tired old butt in the living room chair. This author is more obsessed by farm animals, I'm more garden-oriented, but it's still an interesting read for homesteading dreams. She's doing it on rented land in this book, making me so much more grateful for the land I own and love so much.

Studies Show...

2011-12-15T06:04:00.004-05:00

It's not like I was upending tree roots, merely turning over the parched soil when I heard the sickening crack of my spading fork. I was just glad it wasn't my back.

Yolie had to go to town anyway, so she took it to Sears who promptly stood by their Craftsman lifetime pledge, replacing it for free.

We've had a string of gorgeous days, I feel so much better when I've worked outside. I emotionally process everything better while working.

Going to visit either Jonathan or Paloma takes both planning and an entire school day. I feel I can only go when the kids are in school, then I fret that a school will call and need me, or about all the work that doesn't get done when I'm driving, or even the fact that RAD kids just don't care that much about my presence, only my presents, presenting me with a list of demands every phone call, like they used to do when they lived with us, melting down any time any arbitrary and impossible demand was not met.

Lily would've never been able to have her friend, Jaden, over here every Wednesday afternoon, joining us for supper and then going to youth group with our family. Paloma used to verbally attack and physically threaten Lily's friends on the school bus, or cut Mayra and Sabrina's clothes up just because she felt they, both girls, were too pretty. She'd scream wild accusations at everyone who walked by her, demanding that I punish them when they'd not done anything, screaming at me that I never punished them.

They'd all stare at me in utter disbelief at her accusations, knowing they'd all been right there in my eyesight.

It must be tragically difficult to live like that, to have one's own mind so terribly tortured from within. She is such a beautiful child when she is not snarling.

I still shudder to think of the 24-7 vigilance that was required, yet did little good. This is where I want to concentrate on my own PTSD recovery and growth.

One of my new used books A Very Modest Cottage is entrancing. Seducing me even, with its beautiful photos. I have an old tenant house on my own property that someday I'd love to restore. I'm reading this slowly, savoring every word, loving every illustration.

I awoke with a start at five this morning, dreaming I'd seen the tail lights of the washing machine repair man pulling away without fixing it. Seriously, Cindy? That's what you're stressing about? Our microwave made a loud exploding sound and gave up the ghost two days ago, I'd already replaced it via Wal-Mart. Everything here dies of over use. Someday even me.

The Wednesday night church service had served pies, cakes and cheesecake, our family benefited from the leftovers, Chuy and I remained in the driveway, trying to figure out why the van door wouldn't close. Oh no. A large metal hinge was broken, that's gonna require a welding repair.

I'd spent the afternoon in the very warm sunshine, working and listening to Shrink Rap Radio podcasts, a psychologist who interviews authors in his field, fascinating as all get out. I literally wanted to take notes with my dirty hands, trying to absorb all I was learning.

Studies show that one learns better while moving around, this is why school age boys particularly have such a difficult time, they're told to "Stop fidgeting," when, if left alone and allowed to be wiggle worms, they'd be able to absorb and assimilate more information at a better rate.

Sarah'd read that study aloud to me from a book, I can't remember the title, or I'd link it here. Yolie 'd been telling me that she reads all Sarah's homeschool links on Facebook, because even if one doesn't home school, one can learn so much about helping their children learn better. In today's world, full of electronic distractions that compete with homework, we parents need all the help we can get.

But the point is, I too, can retain information that I've absorbed while in movement, much like a mischievous little boy I suppose. I spouted off several theories I'd listened to that afternoon, later talking with Yolie. The world is a fascinating sphere, there's so much still to learn and to discover.

Can You Spot The Difference?

2011-12-14T06:46:00.004-05:00

An article from Len Penzo Dot Com that addressed the ridiculous concepts I'm up against every day, as some of my grown kids explain why they are unemployed...yet sport cell phones and nice clothes.

I have two winter black outfits that are nearly identical to each other. I wear one and wash one repeatedly, so that I can pay for a $150 cheerleading jacket. I'd only wear two outfits if I only had zero kids. I don't care what I wear, I care what I do.

If I didn't have kids, I'd not spend money on fashion, I'd invest and I'd donate.

I've heard these arguments a thousand times from some grown kids who just wanna argue. I used to think I could teach them decent morals and principles, but I'm tired of arguing. OK, you win. I'll back down about the need for employment, budgeting, and not becoming a homeboy, whatever that is. You are grown. Have at it.

The next blog I read early this morning was a shocker. It's not necessarily the above mentioned unemployed who keep McDonalds busy, rather it is the middle class, folks like me.

Wow.

However I do not do my part, I'd rather eat at home. I like what I cook, such as the eggplant casserole of yesterday dripping with onions, pepper jack cheese, and tomatoes. Grandma added her sweet potatoes plus I'd done baked potatoes, giving the ravenous kids two choices of taters. Some, like me, chose both.

But I do understand a harried, working mother choosing to not spend an hour or so in the kitchen for a five minute meal to be wolfed down.

My three sons had an interview finally yesterday at MCDonalds, the manager will be calling character references, I believe they're a shoe in, but it's taken me some five phone calls, and five visits up there just to get them an interview. That's called persistence. They'd filled out applications their own selves, I pushed them to explain they'd be available whenever the manager needed them.

Yep, it'll fall on me to drive them up there constantly, but isn't that what a mama needs to do in order to teach the eventual independence? They'll buck me on getting up early or even on handing me their uniform to wash, they'll balk at my budgeting suggestions and most of my advice, because that's what teenagers do...to some degree, it's just multiplied here by their other issues of defiance, anger, and oppositionalism.

My one birth child, years ago, listened intently before her first job, because she innately trusted me, as did quite a few others, the majority, who didn't have diagnosed emotional problems. Even my handsome, hard-headed Big Joe served his time in fast food arenas, now very happy working at the hospital. And Joe likes to cook, McDonalds was fun for him.

Those who listen to advice will advance, those who defy me tend to get fired.

Duh.

Some even self-sabotage themselves over and over and over again, losing good jobs in the process. I find it sad, I hope and pray that as their brains develop better and as they mature, some common sense will begin to be obvious to them, that they'll like their good-looking selves enough to understand that they deserve stability and security. That hard work pays off.

Some call me 'old school' for believing that about hard work. Oh My Goodness. Seriously?

All the way up there, a 7-9 mile ride up the highway I was lecturing them, "Don't touch your cell phone, remember your manners, make eye contact," etc. to some fairly open-minded, listening ears. I was rather impressed with them.

I took CW in for a haircut after dropping the other three off. "You're not coming in with us?' one asked in alarm.

"Nope," I replied. "You've gotta do this. It already appears from all of my persistence, that you have plenty of parental support." I mean, heck, they've been in school, they didn't have time to be persistent. I did this on their behalf. CW's only 15, he wishes he could get a job.

CW didn't get much of a haircut, there went $17, for what? To look even more handsome certainly. Honestly there was a pile of his hair on the floor when he was done, yet his hair is still longish. No, I don't dislike this style, this is a fifteen year old expressing himself harmlessly. I'm fine with that. However the man told us that his salon will be closing down, CW was downcast.

Our economy sucks.

I'd bellyached annoyingly on the phone to my original caseworker. This month, these past few years of dealing with mental issues has been quite trying. I'm a very energetic person who thrives on hard work, I really do, it gives me a sense of purpose, direction, goals and challenges, but I feel as if I, like all y'all, get treated very unfairly in regards to children with diagnoses.

This is an arena that many adoptive parents find themselves in, and there's no training that can prepare one to nearly have to fight for one's life or for the safety of their children. The violence is astonishing.

I did not create this, I've upended all sorts of resources, therapies, interventions, programs and accessed all sorts of help for very difficult children...often to no avail. Does anyone blame OTP for kicking two of my children out of their programs over the years?

Anyone question them about, "What triggered this?" Anyone point fingers at them for failing to positively change the child...even with an entire staff at their disposal?

Another time OTP refused to even accept a kid of mine, "We have axes here, this might prove to be too dangerous."

Ya think?

And each time, this raggedy ole lady was supposed to be able to manage dangerous behaviors? Hello?

This is why I dig so hard outside. I'm so dadgum angry that help is so difficult to access without fingers being pointed at me.

I've asked for help, I've been the one to report incidents, I've had to defend myself and my parenting constantly, and I'm just about sick of it to the point that it's difficult to even be civil about it anymore. I'm afraid I look wild-eyed in my frustration.

I try and dissipate my fury through hard physical labor, and it helps me. It really does. Yesterday I pulled up old black raspberry plants and double-dug a large bed, pulling out the stupid quack grass tenacious roots, dragging heavy laundry baskets up the stairs over to Grandma's side of the house until my washing machine pump gets fixed tomorrow. I drug wet clothes home to my dryer and hung towels outside to sweeten them. It was warm weather, I broke a sweat, Honey, that's what I like to do.

I do not like to have to defend myself.

Almost Routine Poop

2011-12-13T06:45:00.006-05:00

This rooftop garden from Sustainablog and Saray's three children have nothing to do with this post, I just like these pictures.

You know I didn't see the irony, back when Miriam worked at McDonalds, that the daughter of a slow foods, vegetarian mama was working at a fast food, meat-slinging pit stop. I didn't see it until Ms Carr pointed it out to me, sometimes I'm just so busy getting the jobs done, getting folks where they need to be, feeding, laundering, and everything else, that obvious irony truly escapes me.

Three of my sons are now trying to get hired there in order to buy their first cars. I've gone by, spoken with the new manager several times, promising her that I'd be responsible for getting them there to whichever cruddy shift she needs to fill, likely it'll be the 6 a.m. one on Saturday, but I'm fine with that. I get up early anyway.

I have a nine and a nine thirty appointment today, leaving me the 60 degree afternoon free for pulling some more quack grass rhizomes, this is the first year in decades that my garden is already shaping up so well for next season, making me very happy. I know that I'm a better human being when I've spent some time outdoors each day, it literally helps to evaporate my stress.

Reading the new Southern Exposure Seed Exchange catalog cover to cover, they laughingly wrote of a triathlete who dug some 40 raised beds all by herself. Honey, me too! Exclamation mark necessary in that I'm no athlete at all, just a determined, energetic, hyperactive gardener.

I have some serious trust issues after all I've been through, especially when I hear folks badmouthing me behind my back while smiling at me. I find myself naively shocked, like a kindergartner who unexpectedly got bullied. Sitting in that meeting yesterday with some folks I've known a very long time, my issues bubbled within, it's the new people I treat warily, there's always new people, as older ones get burned out, the turnover amongst those we've sought help from over the years has skyrocketed into the hundreds. I get very bored retelling our story.

The lady I ate lunch with yesterday, Lisa, gave me permission to identify her. She's very well versed in adoption issues, especially RAD and trauma. We've not known each other long, but someone else I trust mightily really likes her a lot, as do I. I met her daughter yesterday as well,. They'd outgrown a bike that we've put in storage for Hazel to grow into, Lisa'd also grown close to Sarah over the internet. She lives an hour or so away from here, but had a foster dog that needed the UGA Vet School.

Lily's talked about fostering dogs before, she's interested in either being a Vet or a Vet Technician, when she's older she might bypass the McDonalds-Buy-A-Car plan and go clean poop for a vet. Her desire, not mine.

But let's talk about poop for a minute. Sorry if you're drinking your coffee. I'm doing so as I type, knowing that the most recent coffee drinking studies are way past encouraging regarding the anti-oxidants from coffee. The newest Life Extension Journal had spoke of some 30 cups a day as not being too many. Grandma excitedly read it to me, knowing I never add sugar to my coffee, she adds milk, which is fine.

Back to the poop. Foster mothers might be accustomed to getting new foster babies and toddlers and changing their diapers, but I'd initially gone into adoption looking at school age adoptable children, however I ended up with enough toddlers within each sibling group that diaper duty fell to me. That I never really minded, it was the feces smearing that alarmed me, or the wadded up toilet paper containing turds left out for me to discover, sending a sad message certainly. An illustrated cry for help.

Be ready for this y'all, it's an indicator of some serious issues. The best advice I ever received from a caseworker was, "Find a therapist NOW!" I completely trusted my caseworker, if she'd have told me to find a circus clown who only wore magenta colors and upside down stripes, I'd have done so unquestioningly, knowing I needed all the help I could find.

A therapist is a must. Lisa told me her child was adopted out of a state that didn't recognize RAD as a diagnosis, yet sent her a severely RAD child. Hello? She searched and searched until she found someone well-versed in RAD issues. Dr. Mandy knows trauma issues extremely well. We'd have been in a mess without her knowledge.

I have one sibling group that's slightly RAD, but that's the least of their issues, which is scary enough.

The poop is challenging enough, but, honestly, the rages are astronomically difficult. The adrenaline coursing through even a tiny seven year old gives them super human strength that can do an monstrous amount of damage and injury to either humans or property. Temper dysregulation is almost a given in traumatized children. They do not know how to express their emotional pain any other way. You will also need to find a good Sheetrock repair person, or learn to do it yourself.

That toilet wasn't accidentally stopped up...just sayin'.

But I didn't lose my temper, it takes way more'n a toilet packed with doo doo and paper to rile me up. This is almost routine.

We finally got the toilet unclogged, by we I mean me, and we'd also smelt something burning from the washing machine. Uh-oh.

Turns out Sears told me our pump was defective and had to be recalled, giving me a number to call regarding product recall replacements.

I melted down.

"Shouldn't that be on YOU?" I asked them politely, yet stiffly. "You put the defective pump in the machine. YOU call 'em."

"Ya want it fixed, or not?" I was reasonably asked.

OK, good point.

I have someone scheduled now for Thursday.

Two Justamamas Today

2011-12-12T15:26:00.003-05:00

Because I boo hooed yesterday, a wah wah moment, I felt wiped out the rest of the day, piddling with a paint brush, my office is looking pretty good, I want to repaint all of Lily's trim since we've switched rooms some months back, I have a long list of painting I want to accomplish.

I had a meeting today with workers, supervisors, regional folks and local ones about what to do regarding a 13 year old and an almost 15 year old. It is not safe for us to have them be here, neither within my family nor in the community. I've had to do the unthinkable, I've asked CPS for help. We need their help, but that also results in fallout that can be very unpleasant.

The lady who facilitated the meeting was very understanding. I'd been told by other professionals that i would really like her, and I truly do.

We adoptive parents with dangerous or mentally ill or violent, aggressive children are in uncharted territory. There is no model for dealing with us, without upsetting our other children who we are trying to keep safe.

It has emotionally wiped me flat out.

I had lunch today with someone I'd met in the blogging world. I was gonna mention her name, but I don't think I will, as she's had to do what I've had to do, and she might not want me talking about it.

She was exactly who I needed to be with today certainly.

Her child(ren) has had 28 mothers, imagine that level of emotional trauma and insecurity, yet she too was yanked out of her classroom and questioned some time back when this had happened in their family. The mom was nearly killed by another young child while driving. That mom is an amazing mom with an awesome level of dedication, knowledge, and determination.

I just don't think any worker completely understands the savage, brutal level of trauma, unless you've lived with and loved children like ours, the damage has been cataclysmic. They are always angry, literally prowling, and looking for someone to hurt.

"Have you tried a sticker chart?"

Hello?

Even my more bonded, nurtured children have been angry and acting out, so deeply insulted by those who just don't understand how they feel about all these intrusive acts. This has resulted in a rough month, yet I have a pretty easy-going group of teenagers living here.

Dr. Mandy spends her time reassuring the children that they are secure with me, yet conversely since I've taken that drastic step, regarding others, in order to maintain family safety.

There are no easy answers.

I'd have taken this step even if there were no other children in my home because these two teenagers are just too dangerous, when deputies are called to the school for a fifth grader, then again multiple times in sixth grade....Honey, that indicates some severe issue that Justamama can't heal.

Full time therapeutic intervention and intensive help is needed, it is desperately needed, and Justamama needs to seek out that help, even if it then makes her look like an angry, upset, hard-hearted person. I am upset.

I've lived under, and with those threats, for too many years for it not to have changed me.

I told a regional supervisor that I no longer promote adoption, because I see too many adoptive parents getting absolutely destroyed in the process. I will stand by and emotionally support those adoptive parents still in the trenches, but I've seen too much. Way too much.

I stand here absolutely shocked and stunned from it all.

But I can't just stand here, I have a very nasty toilet to continue plunging. I stared into the clogged mess thinking all sorts of thoughts, comparing it to the miasma of emotional turmoil I seen over the years. I'm starting to think I'm gonna need a plumber's snake.

Dreadful Season

2011-12-12T06:47:00.004-05:00

One Christmas I lost my BFF Aunt Jean very tragically, right after one of my grandmothers passed away. I was Jean's pet. She was childless and lived two blocks away, only in her early thirties, and I was the firstborn niece for her. After that tough Christmas, my grandfather, Jean's dad, never celebrated Christmas again. Jean's brother was my dad. He, too, barely recovered emotionally, as he was also Jean's preacher at the time too.

My first brother-in-law, Alan, died at age 26 right before Christmas in the early 1980s. That ensuing Christmas was a mute, somber time for us. He'd been hanging out with us the previous 14 years. Our family was shattered by the loss of him, it was so shocking, he was so young.

12 years later...which of my then 11 kids can forget the tears, as we knew we were soon to lose Ellen? Another Christmas Season down the toilet.

My own parents weren't all that big on Christmas anyway either, it was always a small affair, but with lots of food. My parents are as non-materialistic as I, none of us, including my brothers, have any sort of clue about what's at the mall. We just don't go. We have no interest, we have things to do.

I still recoil inwardly each season, appalled by the glitz, the amped up impossible expectations of each person, child or not, plus the Holiday Hells we've since endured after adoption. My children's inner alarm bells clang so loudly during this time of forced gaiety, remembering their birth parents drunken bouts, or other very scary times, not trusting anyone to not nut up during the season, spreading chaos and confusion that they'd lived with so long ago.

If anything, I retreat inwardly during holidays, some of my grown kids have used Thanksgiving as a tool, and by Christmas, I'm telling those children still at home, "Here's Plan B," knowing happy and fun experiences last forever, unlike plastic geegaws that I buy only to get broken that very same day. BTDT. Or stolen right out from under the tree...That's happened also.

When my children are grown, I expect them to be setting up their own family traditions, go to their in-laws homes, but as Daniel has said, "We know Mom likes Thanksgiving," he'd informed his lovely fiance, "For Christmas she's outta there."

Thanksgiving is just fun, food and friendship, yapping and hanging out, this past one was simply lovely. No drama, no fussing, no problems, just stuffed bellies.

I've always been emotionally close to Tracy and Lisa, a wonderful couple, I've known for some 30 years now. I'd gone to the hospital yesterday after church while I still had on my monkey suit, as Lisa's dad is in failing health...here at Christmas. Her mom is also hospitalized. They'll also find out if their first grandchild is a boy or a girl this month. An exciting event. Thank God for that, but Oh My Goodness, Lisa's parents need prayer, as does Lisa and her sister, Susan, who've been dealing with all this for six or seven weeks now.

Look at the obituary pages in January, all the folks who held on through the holidays are then giving up the ghost, it's literally a phenomenon.

I can't wait for New Year's day, we'll be past the Winter Solstice, each day will slowly grow longer, minute by minute, I'll germinate seeds in the house, amping up for Spring, all the Holidays that I never enjoy will be past us.

I've had a teenager here going through a very rough emotional patch, very rude and hateful to me, something that just doesn't emanate from him very much. A breakthrough yesterday that left he and I both in tears, facilitated by Chuck. I don't like crying, it always leaves me wiped out, but I was glad to get past this bout.

Inner Visions

2011-12-11T07:00:00.004-05:00

Crises challenge our deepest beliefs: that bad things don't happen to good people, that life makes sense, that we have control over what happens. Tedeschi describes them as seismic, because they overturn basic assumptions upon which life is built. Afterward, a new framework must be constructed. "That's no small thing," he observes. "It requires some people to make big changes not only in how they think but in what they do and in how they choose to live." Brooding over what happened—in other circumstances a dangerous warning sign of depression—may actually be essential to the process of growth.

Notably, the people who find value in adversity aren't the toughest or the most rational. Instead, they tend to be ordinary—neither the best- nor the worst-adjusted. What makes them different is that they are able to incorporate what happened into the story of their own life. They are willing to undertake the painful process of rethinking who they are and giving up an old script that no longer applies. "Maybe one of the keys [to growth] is the capacity to admit that you've been changed by experience," says King. "Which means admitting that you're vulnerable, and admitting that there would have been good things about your life if you hadn't had to go through those negative events."

I was back reading in Psychology Today and first read a rather disturbing article about those who'd had severe early childhood trauma going on to recreate that exact same life subconsciously. I hate reading articles that take away hope, as I look to so many of my children who've not only survived, but thrived after such severity and extreme lack before adoption.

The second paragraph above better defines some kids like my Sabrina. Or maybe it's about me...or you.

The first paragraph seems to be more akin to what we parents grapple with, as the adoption of older children brings so many fingers pointed at us, as if we were the root cause of our new children's emotional disturbances. What the heck?

Even caseworkers and therapists might initially question us about the children's rage triggers when obviously it comes from a deep dark place within them. I remember one young child of mine raging four times in the first day here. I then had no clue what I was in for, not all children rage, but those that do will rattle a new parent to the core.

It's like a two year old tantruming in a large person's body. It can be scary. The destruction can be staggering, a stunned parent stands there in mute shock. Another what the heck?

I was thinking all day long about post-traumatic growth, feeling a sense of inner happiness that I haven't known in a long, long time, as I'd long fretted about me ever being able to return to the land of the living someday, figuring the shocks and the traumas had reduced me to a pile of stinking rubble.

Does this mean I can be stronger than ever? How cool is that?

I painted nine hours here, finished staining the wood, and then repainting trim that takes a battering every single year around here, as if someone is going around chipping chunks off at every opportunity, which is not the case, basically we just have tremendous wear and tear upon a house.

Sabrina cracked up laughing at me, catching me dancing and painting at the same time, singing off key, which is the best I can muster up.

I'd downloaded a CD of my favorite brother-in-law, an old Steely Dan, that I'd always liked, especially My Old School as it talks about both William & Mary and Annandale (Va) where I'd attended junior high school in the 1960s. But a line about the oleanders being in bloom up in Annandale has always bothered me. Oleanders don't grow in Annanadale. They're too tropical for northern Virginia, but I don't suppose the lyricist got all bothered by this discrepancy.

The youtube clip I linked is a stunning look back at 1973, my second year of college, the year Sarah was born. It looks like a thousand years ago, feels like it too sometimes. We had stereo record turntables and mongo sized speakers. But it was Stevie Wonder's Inner Visions, "He's Mistra Know It All," beautiful piano playing that I put on repeat and listened to dozens of times as I painted, thinking about who I used to be...before all this, back when my sister and her first husband were still alive, before I'd seen much of any dark side of life.

(Jimbo - click on it, both of them actually, and it'll totally remind you of Ellen and Alan). I remember going to a Stevie Wonder concert with my first husband, my brothers, sister, and Sarah in my belly as Stevie Wonder opened for the Rolling Stones. Seriously we saved up about five big bucks each to attend. Wonder what on earth concert tickets cost nowadays?

I'd written a couple more paragraphs about the 70s but deleted it, suffice it to say, since my nieces read this, your daddy was really cool. And Lauren, when I think about how much I miss Ellen, I just can't begin to imagine the depths of your pain. I hope you read the article I linked yesterday, it really spoke to me, and I hope it does to you also.

I was a fun loving, much goofier, unafraid of anything, adventuresome, naive, dirt grubbing, beginning gardener. I'd go out dancing all night. Not drinking alcohol allows one to power on ahead full steam while others are dropping like flies around me. What's wrong with y'all? Who wants to be impaired? Don't you like yourselves? Doncha wanna take care of your body? Now at 57 I'm even more glad that I've always eaten right and not crapped myself up with bad habits. I had no clue how much I'd later need all my strength and health.

Grandma cooked us supper to allow me to continue painting and my teenage sons actually thanked her. Wow.

My other teenagers got out after seven classroom hours of Driver's Ed and didn't complain. That's unusual enough, they return this morning, a Sunday, for another seven hours.

I have more painting to do. I comprehend that I'm literally making big changes in the house for obvious reasons, trying to disassociate my memories from some of the bad times we've endured, erasing the walls that witnessed the Hell, changing it up for the better, the kids still living at home are a pretty darn good group, moody teenagers with irritability, some anger and oppositional issues, but overall it's just so much better nowadays.

Our pediatrician volunteers one day a week at the elementary school helping Tabby's class because the doctor's son has always been in Tabby's class for years now. "That Tabby is really smart," Dr N told me, me beaming with pride because that's not the typical kind of remark I've gotten from folks over the years.

Tabby is smart and I hope and pray I can keep her on track in the years to come, I want to help her achieve her dreams and goals.

Post-Traumatic GROWTH! Yeahboy! Bold Fonts, Italics Excess, and Overly Lengthy - Even In The Title

2011-12-10T06:51:00.006-05:00

It turns out that some of the people who have suffered the most, who have been forced to contend with shocks they never anticipated and to rethink the meaning of their lives, may have the most to tell us about that profound and intensely fulfilling journey that philosophers used to call the search for "the good life."

Whadya think ladies? Is this us?

Judging from comments, emails, and many years on the Foundation for Large Families email list, I'd say a common denominator we all once shared as we began our adoption journeys would be our intense desire to share our blessings coupled with our abject shock at what we've since been through in the process.

Isn't that a fair assessment?

We've questioned ourselves, second guessed everything, lost friends, husbands, boyfriends, potential mates, our abilities to make a complete sentence with subject and verb agreement, and wondered if God was trying to tell us something, and then have been stunned by our many significant emotional losses along the way, nearly losing our own minds. And this isn't just true for those of us that chose to parent large families, I think of many of y'all who've adopted just one troubled child, and have felt as decimated as the rest of us. It just takes one to splatter your heart and soul all over kingdom come.

Psychology Today's article, The Hidden Side of Happiness" goes on to say, "But to their surprise, many people find that enduring such a harrowing ordeal ultimately changes them for the better. Their refrain might go something like this: 'I wish it hadn't happened, but I'm a better person for it.'"

Man oh man, do I agree with that. I wonder how self-indulgent, how selfish, how self obsessed I might've become had I not had these 39 distractions and challenges? I'd likely have made my one original child, Sarah, nutso with my intensity, had it not been diluted by so many other needs. I'd likely have been the mother-in-law from Hell to Preston, had I not been so busy with everything else, right?

But, am I happy?

I'm not unhappy.

I'm not bored.

This and other promising findings about the life-changing effects of crises are the province of the new science of post-traumatic growth. This fledgling field has already proved the truth of what once passed as bromide: What doesn't kill you can actually make you stronger. Post-traumatic stress is far from the only possible outcome. In the wake of even the most terrifying experiences, only a small proportion of adults become chronically troubled. More commonly, people rebound—or even eventually thrive.

I buy that, I truly do.

Y'all have seen me flat-out bleeding, bruised, crippled at times by my own tears, in utter shock at what has happened, frustrated to the max, blown away, blindsided, shattered, burned alive, and grief-stricken by choices I've seen my children make. Claudia reassured me recently, "But you still get up each day and do what needs to be done," which was strangely soothing to me. Yeah, I do do that.

Do do. Snicker. She said doo doo.

Those who weather adversity well are living proof of one of the paradoxes of happiness: We need more than pleasure to live the best possible life. Our contemporary quest for happiness has shriveled to a hunt for bliss—a life protected from bad feelings, free from pain and confusion.

I might end up quoting most of this article, as it's totally speaking to me this morning. I've often wondered what was the purpose in all this, as I sacrificed everything to help my children grow up...only to be bitterly disappointed so often, or to be falsely accused, criticized, rejected, disrespected, beat down, spit upon, lied about, and hated. Ouch. What'd I do?

This anodyne definition of well-being leaves out the better half of the story, the rich, full joy that comes from a meaningful life. It is the dark matter of happiness, the ineffable quality we admire in wise men and women and aspire to cultivate in our own lives. It turns out that some of the people who have suffered the most, who have been forced to contend with shocks they never anticipated and to rethink the meaning of their lives, may have the most to tell us about that profound and intensely fulfilling journey that philosophers used to call the search for "the good life."

Oh preach it puh-leeze as the shock alone has torn my soul from its moorings so often.

Yes, I had to look up the word 'anodyne'.

an·o·dyne/ˈanəˌdīn/
Adjective:
Not likely to provoke dissent or offense; uncontentious or inoffensive, often deliberately so: "anodyne New Age music".
Noun:
A pain-killing drug or medicine.
Synonyms:
adjective. sedative - analgesic
noun. painkiller - analgesic

This broader definition of good living blends deep satisfaction and a profound connection to others through empathy. It is dominated by happy feelings but seasoned also with nostalgia and regret. "Happiness is only one among many values in human life," contends Laura King, a psychologist at the University of Missouri in Columbia. Compassion, wisdom, altruism, insight, creativity—sometimes only the trials of adversity can foster these qualities, because sometimes only drastic situations can force us to take on the painful process of change. To live a full human life, a tranquil, carefree existence is not enough. We also need to grow—and sometimes growing hurts.

Hmmm, I must be happy as a foolish goose then, after all this adversity.

Her mind-blowing experience came as a total surprise. But that feeling of transformation is in some ways typical, says Rich Tedeschi, a professor of psychology at the University of North Carolina in Charlotte who coined the term "post-traumatic growth." His studies of people who have endured extreme events like combat, violent crime or sudden serious illness show that most feel dazed and anxious in the immediate aftermath. They are preoccupied with the idea that their lives have been shattered. A few are haunted long afterward by memory problems, sleep trouble and similar symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. But Tedeschi and others have found that for many people—perhaps even the majority—life ultimately becomes richer and more gratifying.

Post-traumatic growth? I'm grabbing that ball and running with it. I'm only on the first page of this article, and flashing, glittering light bulbs are pinging all around my knotty head.

Wowza! Exclamation mark and all, I can heal? Watch out world, before I catapult into another such punctuation hysteria, I'm gonna heal from all this, I'm gonna continue forward, I'm gonna do more and more with my life. I have hope. I'm smiling with relief this morning, as I might have found an answer to my own inner struggle. Can it really be so?

Yeah boy, you know I have ten tons of hyperactive energy coursing through me, that must be dispelled each day, or I can't sleep a wink.

I might even date again someday. Wanted: Christian older man, financially independent, emotionally strong and uber patient - no wimps need apply. That's all non-negotiable. Or Ill stay happily single and join the Peace Corps and teach sustainable farming practices, or just splat down on a beach and try not to wet myself after all this stress. You're welcome for that visual. Brain bleach anyone?

I drug home two more truckloads of bagged up leaves, sharing them with the chicken coop and under my antique roses that have exploded with growth due to such rich soil. I have purchased enough groceries for the weekend, returned to the pediatrician, concerned over Jack's supposed chigger bites that look like red, raw welts, he ended up with a steroid shot in each arm, that instantly turned him into a ravenous wolf, "I'm SOOOOOOO hungry," he snarled. The sweetest 11 year old on the planet gobbled down a Larry's Giant Greek Veggie Sub, and then everything else he could find in our house, the welts shrank before our eyes.

I sat with a middle school teacher I didn't know all that well, she'd been hired there after I retired, and I was almost mute with shock as she told me about her brother-in-law's suicide yesterday, plus I discovered she was a first cousin to a recent tragic murder victim, a mom of four, who been killed by her husband this past year. Oh my goodness, this sweet, beautiful woman was sitting there in the waiting room not even knowing how much shock she herself was in at the moment. I'm putting her and her family on my prayer list and asking y'all to do the same please.

Life is hard, it is brutal, none of us get outta here alive, many of you have had a window, a seat to many of the trials and tribulations here within my family that mirrored your own experiences. I hope you too will find comfort in the phrase 'post-traumatic growth.'

I'm exalting in it. It gives me excitement, hope and something to look forward to in a very big way. I have plans for this aspect of my life.

In the meantime I just paid $750 for four teenagers to take Driver's Education and this was with a 50% off sibling discount that I found to be very, very generous of the teacher. We keep Christmas to a minimum, knowing Holiday Hell is fraught with booby traps. "I'm buying you your freedom," I explained to the sluggish teenagers this morning, "This'll keep your insurance rates down, but way more importantly, will buy me some peace of mind that you will be safer drivers."

They stumbled into the building there this morning before 8 a.m. on a cold Saturday, seven hours today and tomorrow, then another Saturday, plus driving time. I'll save up the big bucks for the February class, and I'll then send Tony and CW, thus ensuring the six teenagers now with Learner's Permits are better drivers overall. What price can one put on safety?

Martin's almost 18 already, but I wanted this Driver's Ed before he gets past his Learner's Permit. Call me over protective. I met his friendgirl yesterday, was duly impressed, as she was sweet, very pretty and polite, half Mexican, half El Salvadoran. They see each other maybe once a month, she lives in another county, they text constantly. I'm OK with that, take it slow, son. He's a catch -handsome, easy going, fun, nice, and just delightful to be with any day of the week.

Part Two of this concept coming up...

Court Waiting Room

2011-12-09T06:26:00.006-05:00

It's probably barely obvious that it took me until my mid 40s to get my shoes on the right foot first try. Like I've ever had time to think first? Like shoe fashion registered anywhere in my brain?

Yesterday I stopped myself right before brushing my teeth with Jack's prescription steroid skin creme for his chigger bites, well in my defense, they look the same, but it sure smelled funky on my toothbrush, quickly alerting me to my mistake olfactorily.

And what yo-yo throws away the empty paint stain can without writing down the name of it? Oh my goodness, I'd already taken the bags up to the gate for the trashcan man. Where is my mind lately? I flew up there, dived in, and unbelievably quickly found the right can amongst everything. I don't throw cans away anyway, I recycle them. But I knew the yoyo had been me. I need to buy another can today.

JoJo had an anti-climatic dance recital, especially after his epic prank fall of the previous EPOCHS event where I'd laughed myself silly. If anything he was almost afraid last night of performing properly on stage. I've never previously observed him acting in any manner of self-consciousness, but he did do a good job,

I'd had a court date with Pepe, it ran very late, well the waiting time did, but we had a nice visit, so that was ok.

We had such a great time, that I second-guessed myself over him being in other situations, but I remembered the violence every time he was told something he didn't wanna hear, such as, "It's so and so's turn now," or the murderous threats, or the extreme violence that now does seem to have abated. I remember me getting my injuries x-rayed. Yet I know a family situation can sometimes exacerbate the inner torment within someone who has obvious threads of RAD, being in programs with more therapeutic help is often times so much better. The minimal family expectations can inadvertently amp up inner torment.

As for my own foolish pride of course, knowing he, Jonathan and Paloma do better without the family doesn't make me feel great. But then again they don't literally do better, Pepe'd put a kid in the hospital a year or so ago, has now needed substance abuse help, has many tattoos that I, as his custodial parent, would've been investigated for, he's been removed from several programs for their inability to maintain his negative behaviors. In one placement he wouldn't come home at nights, in another he refused to attend therapy, plus he's often made false allegations in various placements.

I have too many kids at home, even if I had just one kid at home would count though, as family safety should be a God-given right.

Paloma definitely needs a professional staff and their ability to end her rages with a sedative, Jonathan tells us that the external controls in facilities keep his own rages in check.

Jonathan mumbling that he misses us. I'd begged him, literally begged him back then to not break the law, not blow through his sanctions, to attend school and not assault others. "Fu$%ing B*@ch," he'd mumble in anger.

It is what it is, a sad situation overall, but Pepe tells me, that through it all, he does understand that I'm still there, if only from a distance, and he does regret his inability to have functioned safely with us. He's turned into a handsome young man, I do have hopes for him, I pray that his inner rage remains leashed within.

At ten last night, almost everyone in bed, Sabrina and her boyfriend, Luis, broke up via text. She boo-hooed in my arms, then shook it off. Me telling her that this is why I object to teenagers going steady, especially teens with abandonment and rejection issues, as this seemingly hurts them more so than others who'd been raised in birth family nurturing environments. She considered what I'd said, factored in some other thoughts, and calmed down totally.

It's a full moon evening, the whole thing's likely to blow over by mid-morning anyway.

The same school secretary who'd called me about Nando getting kicked in the face accidentally on the play ground. called while I was waiting our turn in court, "Cindy," she began, "No reason to worry, but Nando slid into a mud puddle and is soaking wet. Can you come get him?"

Like I can just leave court? See ya Judge?

Fortunately the school had a Plan B, a complete change of clothes, and he took his happy self back outside to finish recess. Nando is not easily upset.

Now I have all the laundry to do that I didn't get done since I spent three hours at court yesterday, coming home to make french toast for supper knowing we had to be at the recital at six. $5 a head, Grandma kept a couple kids home with her.

JoJo had pranced in after school, "I need a black tank top for my performance," he informed me at 4 pm, as if I could magically wave my nonexistent wand?

"You couldn't tell me this weeks ago?"

"I forgot!" he wailed.

Grandma still wasn't home, no way I could individually fry up each piece of toast of the three loaves of bread awaiting me and get to WalMart and back with no babysitter here. Uh-Oh.

Preston, Sarah's handsome husband, saved the day, stopping by Wal-Mart on his way home from work, getting the shirt to us the minute we were walking out the door to the performance.

Thursday's the day I usually get to keep Sarah's kids as she puts on her accountant hat and works downtown for a few hours, but since I was in court, Yolie had taken over, getting the kids to me later. They felt short-changed, they'd had tons of fun with Yolie, but needed Bita time, and bellyached when Preston had shown up to take them home.

I'd also had to cancel our standing appointment with Dr. Mandy due to court.

CJ, too had been very excited after school to find all the fun amongst cousins, fortunately our weather allows outdoor blow-off-steam-time, warm afternoons in which to cavort like baby goats.

Need a Fox Hole

2011-12-08T08:06:00.004-05:00

Ray in a top hat, I'm so glad he lives a very sheltered life. Safe from Facebook for starters.

As a child I figured most grownups had it all together because I had strong, loving parents who appeared that way, who had a stable circle of friends, and there was no 24-7 squawkbox media to change my impression. I was very naive and sheltered. I miss that.

Something very crappy happened at our high school here that does not affect my family at all, in that we are in no way involved, even peripherally, other than knowing both families, generations of one family, the parents, grandparents, even the great grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews, cousins, siblings and everyone else. I've known this one teenager since birth. I know the other guy and his parents also.

It was a bone-headed act, impulsive, bad, wrong, and something any one of my own kids might've been liable to rashly do, without ever stopping to consider the consequences and ramifications.

Because of Twitter, texting, and Facebook, this news was immediately everywhere, and one of my kids made a very ignorant comment about it on Facebook, dissolving into complete, utter, immature disrespect when I corrected his behavior. His reaction was shocking, disturbing actually, as it was both so unexpected and equally as unnecessary when I told him to delete it.

I've lately been getting veiled threats from my own kids, the kids that are acting out terribly in a predictable reaction to the crap of the last month when we've had such intrusive involvement. Their acting out manifests itself in rudeness, defiance, disrespect and anger at me, because I didn't prevent folks from yanking them out of class and questioning them. As if I could've done so?

The maliciousness of some people absolutely astonishes this stick-in-the-mud, law abiding, rule following, conservative lump of a mama. I retreat like the hermit I was meant to be, wanting to make the world go away. Leave me alone.

Chuy went out this morning in shorts and a t-shirt in pure T defiant rebellion. I've often told them to dress appropriately when they've not done so, prefacing it with, "Someone's liable to call DFACS and say Cindy doesn't have enough coats for all those kids," which is a complete untruth. We have ten tons of sweatshirts, hoodies, fleeces and coats that my kids chose to not wear, further adding to my continual level of stress that I wear instead of nice clothes.

A grown kid had texted me at about that exact moment innocuously asking how I was, me responding about wanting the world to just go away, let me just crawl into a hole and recover.

Climbing up one side of a mountain only to get kicked in the teeth figuratively, doesn't do a body any kind of good.

I responded just as immaturely. I opened my Amazon Book cart and childishly rewarded myself for not screaming my own inner rage. I spent a hefty amount, well hefty for me, a couple of bucks, on used books about farming.

See how I roll?

I hit 'Confirm Purchase' rebelliously. I usually wait 24 hours, and the desire to buy anything predictably evaporates.

I'd taken Jack to the pediatrician for a weird rash/bumps/welts on his neck and upper chest, indeed I have a string of these insect bites around my own waist. "Might be chigger bites" we were told, which makes sense as we gallivant on the woods and meadows around here. Given a steroid cream, Jack has prescription meds, and I had Nando's eye looked at, since he'd been clobbered by someone's foot on the playground.

You best believe I have injuries documented, to alleviate or prevent ridiculous accusations against me or anyone else here.

Came home to stain the wood on a wall, I love the finished look, reminds me of the beach house in Nags Head that I once used to retreat to for to weeks at a time each summer. I was reminiscing in my busy head about the sound of the surf and the lost innocence of my own once naive and happy world, when the kids came home from school, and wanted to chatter about what had happened at school that day that involved the sheriff taking someone into custody, someone they knew. Someone they'd looked up to, as he's older and was in a position of trust and respect. It made me so sad, so very, very sad about the entire situation.

I deeply feel for the parents, deeply so. Recently there'd been a burglary arrest, in another case of a kid we knew, again I so empathized and sympathized with the heart broken parents. BTDT. I'm sure that everyone on earth eventually dies of broken hearts, it might be illustrated by old age or cancer or another ailment, but the bottom line must be that our hearts have finally just cracked, shattered, imploded, exploded, and ceased functioning from the pain.

My kids were repeating all sorts of wildly inaccurate gossip about what they thought they knew. "Don't spread stuff," I advised. "Keep your opinions to yourself, don't get involved, this is none of our business, mind your own beeswax."

"What do we say when folks ask us what we think?" JoJo asked me, in complete confusion, used to blurting out any wildly inappropriate thing that springs to mind.

"Just say 'what a shame' or 'I dunno' when folks ask about it," I responded. "Don't get involved. People gossip about us and it hurts us. Don't let us do that to others."

I'm a Human Being Who Love Italics

2011-12-07T07:33:00.004-05:00

Tabby's an Angel and I'm a human being, right?

I live under a microscope. I really do, I am questioned, criticized, and second guessed. When I (used) to adopt, I would need a an intrusive, detailed home study each and every single time. I had to supply all sorts of personal documents, I was scrutinized and interrogated, MAPP-trained and self-educated on the adoption issues, proving myself fit to adopt older troubled, traumatized kids... who'd later threaten to kill me, who'd rob me, and who'd hurt others.

I could've saved myself all that trouble, and just gotten drunk and had myself a passel of kids by different men, but that's not who I am.

I'd have been treated better by society, I'd not necessarily have been looked at with suspicion and asked ridiculous, probing questions at the grocery store, "Are all those your kids?" As if I were subversive or disturbed?

"I'm glad you don't drink beer," Lily told me, after recounting a story of one of her friend's home life.

I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't cuss, and I'm suspect because of it. Folks don't believe someone can go through life without ever drinking.

"I'd have me a pitcher of margaritas every night if I had to live with all your kids," I've been told. As if they have cooties?

Hey y'all, these are my kids that you are sneering at. I wouldn't speak like that about your children.

"You're insane," others rudely guffaw at the very thought of choosing to do what I do.

I just smile politely, or stare vacantly, thinking about the next meal I'm gonna cook.

Other "normal" parents can drink themselves silly, indulge all their own desires for personal maintenance, can go off and take childless vacations, and blow raspberries at someone like me who has to pay very big bucks to take all the kids to the high school football games to watch one daughter cheer.

"I'm sure glad I'm not you!" I'm often told, or, "When I think I'm having a crappy day, I just think about how many crappy days you must have."

Seriously? You think my life is crap? You think I have crappy kids? I never know how to answer. I just smile confusedly in response.

I have a tough life, but without all these challenges, this extreme self-monitoring, I might have married a couple more times. No, thank you. I'd rather be doing this, not sharing the TV remote up in my room. I hear other women complain about their husbands, I'm relieved to have no complaints there, I don't want to squabble or struggle in a relationship.

Nando got injured at school yesterday. My gut reaction was, "Thank God there were witnesses," so I won't be blamed for something I'd never do. Alex broke an arm three different times in elementary school, I was always relieved that it happened there, and not here, as I get questioned as if I were a culprit. That's debilitating.

That has worn down my self-esteem bigtime. Bigtime. I should be better supported, and I am so by those that truly know our family, and the fact that I really do have an open door policy with CPS. "Please do drop by anytime if you have any concerns," and I mean it.

There might be dishes in the sink, or crap tossed around willy-nilly, if I'm not warned that company is coming, but you won't catch my kids unattended because I don't do that. I so rarely want to leave my property for any reason anyway. I'm a homebody. Duh. You won't catch me drinking alcohol, because I don't do that, nor will you ever see a nasty soda or a bite of meat cross my lips. I don't do that.

You might catch this healthy eater with a Kripsy Kreme though.

You won't see my bed unmade because I make it the minute I get up, the kids don't make theirs because I choose my battles and I'll make 'em up for them, just tossing comforters neatly over the balled up sheets, when I gather the unceremoniously tossed dirty clothes that might be hanging from their ceiling fan.

Duh, I'm The Mom.

You won't find a grocery-less house, you might find two kids yelling at each other, vehemently disagreeing over whose turn it might be at the moment. I might be yelling, "Turn that crap down!" about the blaring TV.

I wish CPS would drop by "normal" folks homes, and see their kids not getting supper cooked from scratch, or find a nine year old latch key kid, or some teenage son looking at porn, or the kids left alone after school entertaining the opposite sex in their bedroom. I'm hyper vigilant, I have to be so, other parents have the luxury of more lackadaisical parenting.

I'm held to a very different, much higher standard, yet I have troubled kids who fight me on every shred of common decency.

I've worked my raggedy butt off for my children, 38 years as a parent, 25 years in the adoption world. I've made mistakes, I've learned a lot, I've been deeply distressed, embarrassed, humiliated, aggravated, irritated, in tears, bereft, but never, ever overwhelmed. Never.

I can get up each day, I never sleep late, never, in spite of false accusations, lies, thefts, hatred, destruction, lashing out, and misdirected fury, and I will feed folks, do the dishes, sweep the floors, vacuum, do laundry, dig out garden beds, buy groceries, mow acres of grass with a push mower, attend functions, meetings, court dates, and a thousand appointments, in spite of others lying and saying I did, or didn't, do this or that.

I have no defense against lies. I understand that concept, and, of course, it bothers me.

Polygraph me any time you want. I do have the luxury of knowing that I make every single decision based on doing the right thing. That's who I am. That's why my feelings get so hurt when anyone thinks otherwise. I'm a child of the 1950s, and this is how I was raised, to be extremely conscientious, truthful, moral to the point of prudishness, uncool, and above board at all times.

I confide in Dr C, Dr. Mandy, Emily, pastors, guidance counselors, caseworkers, and teachers who need to know the specifics in order to best teach my seemingly unteachable kids, yet the crap continues to fall in, on, and around me.

Just one day I'd like to be treated as if I'm simply a human being with feelings.

The Nice Pretty Lady was here yesterday and this morning, doing her job, she has an open door invitation any time, any day of the week, even my kids liked her a lot, just as I do, and their suspicion meters were clanging. There was some acting-out last night, as their own basic fears rose to the surface, all the reassurances I can provide mean absolutely nothing when they feel so emotionally threatened. We go running back to Dr. Mandy.

I so envy normal people sometimes that don't have the extreme challenges we face that add to the monumental task of trying to properly raise troubled children.

Lord, please continue strengthening and helping me each day, and I thank You in advance.

Now...moving on, if I paint an accent wall brown in the living room, should I then go with the blue-grey hallway color on the other three walls? Or Not?

Today do I have the luxury of only making that one decision?

Sarah told me about an article in which a local, famous chef, Hugh Atcheson, was working on a canned food drive for Christmas, and was asking for the newer pop-top cans that kids can open without a can opener, since so many kids nowadays are left on their own to make their meals. "That might be the saddest sentence I've ever ever written" he bemoaned.

My kids sit down at the table, in their own seats, and are served cooked-from-scratch meals each evening with real ingredients on real plates...and still get questioned if we have enough food?

I am absolutely outraged at the insensitive intrusions into their own emotional well-being.

It makes me wanna cuss. But, sigh, I don't do that, well not in front of my young'uns, no but certainly in my own head I've raged rudely and with some bad words in my abject frustration at the mistreatment.

Repeat after me, "Cindy is a human being."

Stress Support

2011-12-06T06:48:00.004-05:00

Listening to yet another psychologist's podcast in my never ending quest for brain behavior understanding, a caller griped about their cranky 57 year old mother-in-law, and I felt that was exactly what I'd sounded like yesterday when I typed out my aggravation. Instantly contrite for a minute, I nearly went back inside to take down my post, but I was in the middle of some heavy lifting, and forgot all about it until I received several comments later that my post had meant something to them.

Go figure.

But thank you ladies for your support, you have no idea how much I need to hear from you all as well.

I'd really felt grumpy and ill tempered, tired of the crapola, frustrated with those that'd make a hugely difficult job even harder.

Working outside almost always calms me down, feeds my soul, brings me inner happiness, and here in December it'd sparked up to 70 degrees. This Spring will begin my 20th season in these gardens, and while the once red clay is now a rich loamy soil, there's so much more I could've done had I not been so deeply and constantly needed inside the house.

Even just a few years ago I wasn't being caught up routinely on the housework, so much violence taking place, so many explosions, I just put out fires it seemed. Nowadays my long kitchen counters remain as clean as when I'd scrubbed 'em, not instantly trashed again, and that alone is allowing me some breathing room. Uncluttered surfaces visually ease stress.

"The house is so clean," one who'd never ever lifted a finger to help me, remarked the other Saturday. Well, no kidding, I thought bitterly, but didn't say. At least that particularly lazy one pretty much never caused me any grief. In the grand scheme of things, lazy just wasn't that difficult to deal with, compared to busted in walls and violent attacks upon others.

It is difficult enough to live under these conditions, with children whose brains are literally and structurally damaged. I'm blessed to have some very knowledgeable support systems in place, yet I'm also pettily hassled by some others for some ridiculous stuff. A very apologetic, nice phone call yesterday from someone who has to continue the hassles for another day. "I'm sorry," she explained, while I assured her it was OK, I knew she had to comply.

The levels of stress run through us like multi layered turbulent rivers, each layer peculiarly damaging and continuing to cause stress - some of which is absolutely unnecessary, some of which is normal to those that are simply attempting to just grow up.

This morning was particularly stressful, as everyone snarled at me for everything, as if homework was my fault, insidiously designed by me to further get in their game playing time, stupid rules like the school bus schedule is also my fault, I'm just a mean ole grownup who causes them problems.

Not a one consider what the unrelenting stress does to the only human who has ever routinely fed them.

The barometric pressure is falling, affecting moods? It lifts my own mood, knowing there's a chance for rain today, knowing the chicken litter that I'd piled on the compost pile will ferment via the rain, creating glorious compost that thrills me to my marrow.

As I pushed down my own resentment at the unrelenting rudeness, I thought back about my own lack of gratitude, such as the time my parents gave me huge chunks of money when I adopted from Honduras in the 1980s. Did I ever properly thank them for all they then did? I doubt it, I just took it for granted that that is what good parents do. It was a crapload of money that they then had, that they gave to me, when they could've been investing it for their own retirement future.

Instead, like me, they just wanted to help others. Big hearts that get trampled.

I'll just keep plodding along, getting up to help folks who wanna lash out at me for doing so, knowing it has deeply damaged my own psyche over the years, but hopefully knowing I'm resourceful enough, resiliently intelligent enough to heal someday somehow.

As always, The Adoption Counselor has a really good post about the brain damage our children have endured. I feel really have blessed to have spent that evening with her in Atlanta last fall. She's brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

This Post Is the Sound That Rabbits Emit

2011-12-05T06:36:00.006-05:00

Drudgery.

Predictability.

An Ecclesiastics moment, there's nothing new under the sun.

Facing winter, no wonder I'm dragging my butt.

Just as Holiday Hell is ridiculously predictable, so too seem to be our Sunday afternoons, as if behaving through the church service wasn't properly rewarded enough. Dude, that's called real life. I need to use a sticker chart to get through the service? I can't have a basic expectation that there won't be a fight?

I've read so many psychology tomes, listened to so many therapists, loved and absorbed the resources, and seemingly tried every single possible approach, yet I'm always left with basic, nearly animalistic Adoption 101 behaviors.

Angry kids who show a ray of sunshine, a tad progress, I exclaim over it, or I barely acknowledge it, either way there's gonna be a resulting negative behavior.

One's on a roll recently, punching new holes in his bedroom wall for absolutely no reason. None. We've not had cross words, nor any incidents. He's just angry. He has an Iphone that I'm, of course, paying for, his Driver's Ed expensive class is beginning. I suppose he wants me to pay emotionally for all these pluses as well. Shouldn't I know better by now?

Talk about not having any minimal expectations anymore...

Explaining that this isn't normal behavior means nothing to him. I'm just some random lady with stupid ideas about how one should act in spite of the way one feels.

I don't demonstrate such behavior, instead I cook, clean, nurture, and provide for others who generally respond with anger, resentment and vacant stares. I get that this is fairly normal in the world of traumatized children. That we seem to be experiencing no stealing, for quite some time now, is pretty encouraging. Those that would've been stealing have moved on.

I keep hunting for solutions, theories, and ideas, but, after all these years, do I honestly believe one will appear?

I'm the one whose behavior has changed from sunshiny to gloomy. I've morphed into someone who scurries around waiting for the next blow to fall, flinching when the phone rings, cringing at other starts. I don't socialize at church, I'd rather hurry home, change clothes, get comfortable, and get busy.

Me being productive is intrinsically rewarding for me, I gotta take my happiness where I can, even as I see others trying to sabotage this innocuous and simplistic approach I take to life.

I never wanted to become one of those grumpy, jaded, fashionable older women whose lives revolve around manicures, pedicures, lunches and shopping. OK, I dodged that bullet, instead I'm one of those dumpy, frumpy dirt-digging, barely female specimens who eats lunch outside in the sun without washing her hands first. I take my progress where I can.

Inside the house I patch the holes, repaint, do the never-ending chores mechanically, and respond happily to those that are not then snarling at me.

CW apologized three different times yesterday for his teenage rudeness. That's how teenagers should be, learning their independence, going into prickly territory where they're not really grown up enough, yet they think they are, but still realizing they've been out of line, and then apologizing because they have a working conscience.

I can deal with normal teenage rebellion. It's the drip drip destructive anger that's wearing away at me. I knew when I first started into the adoption world that it'd be a great deal of wall-to-wall work, I figured that'd take the place of a gym membership. I apparently didn't factor in the expansive emotional toll, that is something I've had to learn how to work through in therapy, emotionally disengaging, distancing myself, yet I'm still very wounded. I don't think I'd be normal if I hadn't been affected. Duh.

I do feel very broken in some places. Me being stupid enough to either trust folks who back stab, or to hopefully keep trying when they're out in the real world, hanging with criminals, In reality, without me serving as any sort of a remote conscience for them, the reversion into scary behaviors troubles me greatly. Rejecting my apparently boring middle class world of niceness, which translates into ignorant gullibility to them, leaves one scraping by illegally all too often.

I just stand and stare helplessly, throwing all my self-protective walls back up, while they rage through bad relationships, unemployment, alcoholism, self-medicating, or violent behaviors. Ouch, y'all, that can't be any fun.

I only have the internal satisfaction that I did get up every day, face a hostile crowd that was positive I was all that stood between them and their birth parents, in spite of therapy that told 'em otherwise. I still got up and did what I was supposed to do, no matter what negative, dangerous or ridiculous response I got.

I did it, and I do it, because I was, and am, called to do so. My faith is that strong.

Silly rabbit that I am.

2011-12-04T06:35:00.003-05:00

Didn't we just do this? The Christmas Parade, or as Yolie puts it, the tractor parade...which is what keeps me fascinated. A warm late morning parade that I made everyone drag their jackets to, they ended up tying a bunch of them around my waist, turning me into a stuffed animal appearance.

An even warmer afternoon, I hightailed it out back to work, CW and Martin volunteered, "Need any help?" Wowza, that's what I like, and Scotty cleaned out the chicken coop, piling the refuse high on the compost pile, dumping new sacks of leaves for the hens to scratch through, I heard them clucking until dark o'clock, as happy as I was that day.

I've started a record-breaking five different books and discarded each one, that's the benefit of paying a quarter to a buck for a book at yard sales, I don't have to read the humdrum, the mundane, the mediocre, nor the routine ho hums. But it's never taken five to get to a good one before

Lily went with Gina to the dog park, Tabby practiced her Christmas Musical at church all afternoon, today is the performance, at both services, somehow I'll figure how to see it twice.

Chuy and JoJo never looked up from their video games, and I read this article about over medicating foster children, remembering more than a few of my own children who came to me with prescriptions that we discontinued within the first month of them living here.

However....some children certainly have needed the pharmaceutical help, those with severe diagnoses, unable to function normally at all.

Thrill Me

2011-12-03T07:20:00.005-05:00

I have some very normal and bonded older children. Those I can call and talk to, and know that everything they tell me is true. Daniel, for instance, doesn't feint and dodge, and I, in return, know my own boundaries. I don't ask what he earns, it's none of my business, I don't ask any of my grown children that question. I don't pepper them with queries of how they've spent their time, basically it's only innocuous, polite conversation.

So many of them though chose to respond with lies and half-truths. Some are cagey as to their whereabouts even, accusatory or just resentful that their life, without my dumb rules, is no better than they'd once hoped. As if I were the one holding them back from true freedom.

Eventually I stop calling, figuring if they wanna stay in touch and be upfront with me, they can do so, but I interpret the personal slurs and slander on me as a big ole 'back off' and so I do.

I've been slighted in huge ways, disrespected, and treated badly very often, as they still struggle to find themselves in today's world, while also railing against their own inner trauma.

They'll superficially attach to other adults, a tenuous connection that they'll use and abuse, often bad-mouthing me in the process, later it's those same other adults that they will blame for everything on earth.

It's a fairly natural evolution in the adoption world. leaving deeply dismayed parents who once dreamed of much better relationships, as their children grew up and should've left behind the teenage angst and turmoil, but it rarely is so.

And then folks wonder why I'm so reclusive and emotionally wary? A kicked puppy who cringes.

I have very strong bonds with those that treat me normally, and my own expectations of normal are so minimal.

But I know I've built a wall of self-protection, after all these years of emotional abuse heaped out upon me.

I read journals and scholarly articles, pop psychology and behavior-oriented studies trying to discern the keys and the cues.

This parental rejection is normal behavior on many levels, it's just the depth to which traumatized children delve into that is particularly disturbing, and it's ironic how they'll latch on to folks who'd never have considered the financial and emotional sacrifice that an adoptive parent must make...indeed to evaluate that would entail looking deep within oneself, to comprehend that the child is indeed actually very worthy and loved...which goes against their world view that was terribly scarred and damaged before adoption.

That leaves the adoptive parent bumfuddled on every level.

Maybe we should've never even tried, many of us took so much time away from our own birth children to help those who'd just hate us for doing so...an upside down world.

An it is what it is moment. So many of y'all write to me of your deep emotional anguish. "I wish I could handle it as dispassionately as you seem to be doing," they'll wail to me. Well, it's taken years to get to this point.

Now, rounding my age up to 60, finally learning that it was never really about me, but was wrapped up within their own inner torment, I was merely the emotional punching bag, the outlet for their rage at their birth parents, at the abandonment and rejection, the abuse and the neglect, now I, too, can move on and learn how to heal from the pummeling I've taken.

First step would be in taking care of myself, something I began a couple of year ago with that wonderful osteopathic physician who remarked back then, "You were in terrible physical shape," to me.

Well, no, duh.

I'm working on my finances as well, knowing I don't wanna have to eat cat food out of a can as an elderly woman, knowing I've spent every single penny so far on others, it's on me to tend to my future. I'd retired early, a 14% pay cut for life. Ouch. What was I thinking? Who knew the economy would crash?

My emotional well-being needs tending to as well. I need to shed, to work out the resentment, and the aggravation one develops from constant drip, drip, drip mistreatment. I have some wonderful children, and I'm gonna continue feeding into their lives, loving and enjoying their company, while also wrapping myself in a well-worn cloak of self-protection.

Dave Ramsey was asked if he ever had anticipated the success he was now enjoying. That part, while amazing, didn't surprise him nearly as much as the abject hatred he's experienced. Broke, self-indulgent, frustrated people, those who've caused their own financial problems will scream that his way (logic and spending less than one earns) doesn't work, that he's a quack, an idiot, because they have no inner self-discipline, and will call him all sorts of vile, ugly names and hurl ridiculous accusations at him, leaving him bewildered and stunned.

Oh, Honey, I understand. Folks gotta blame someone.

I don't have time for that, I'm working on a gratitude attitude. Thank you Chuck for working all day at your computer job and coming by to fix our computers, just as Preston does on our heat pumps after working on them elsewhere all day long. Or Yolie for your help in the adoption world after writing adoption home studies, or Sarah for taking care of Grandma's business concerns after doing it for your clients as well.

When Grandpa died, he died proud of Daniel, who took time very often to come see him, to listen to him, to value his knowledge, more so than I ever did for my own dad. No, not really, Dad knew I loved him, but Daniel carries the Raymond name very, very well.

Stuff like that makes me smile. So did my free time yesterday between 2-3 in the afternoon as I yanked out yet another patch of that pernicious quack grass, the warm sun on my back, my darling dogs accompanying me, the hens clucking in the background. It really doesn't take much to thrill me.

Lily's Dilemma

2011-12-02T10:09:00.002-05:00

Through no overt fault of her own, by choice as she chose to miss the bus, with my permission, in order to finish an assignment because I know she's very conscientious, she was however punished by the school with detention for being tardy. Only a doctor's excuse will do. In theory I understand this, yet I gotta believe there'd be exceptions. Not being one to run in and hover, to be a helicopter parent, I explained to Lily that I wasn't angry over the detention I knew she'd get. "Just call me when you've served it and I'll come get you.

She was distraught. She was crying by the time we pulled up in front of the high school. Nurtured and loved since birth, this just felt like a bit too much for her. "Do you want me to come inside with you?" I offered, feeling like I was kicking a puppy to the curb.

"No ma'am," she sniffled, "I've got this."

It absolutely broke my heart to send her to school like that. Payback for trying too hard? Life is hard, no doubt about it, and every part of me wanted to protect her from this heartache.

I felt like I'd let her down, but what could I do?

I told Dr. Mandy about it later, now she's a mother too, and it changes everything, every advice she dispenses, every thought in her mind. It's made her even more empathetic, if that's possible, she carefully considers all angles.

Knowing she, too, would've felt the same way about her own kid, she also thoughtfully posited, "Well much as we want to, we can't protect them forever, coddling would do no good. She's learning coping skills through this instance."

That's true. She survived this heartbreak, this disappointment in herself for getting detention, this is a kid who never gets reprimanded, because she simply always behaves. She's quiet and thoughtful, artistic and sweet, a true blessing to me. She's gorgeous and smart also.

She came home kind of sullen about it all, it turned out that her flash drive had not worked properly, she didn't like the project she'd done, she wasn't her normal sweet self to the teacher, been a little snippy, and he'd emailed me before she'd even come home from school that day, registering his own surprise at her unusual reaction to his correction.

"You owe him an apology," I suggested to the one who very rarely ever argues back.

Because I'm very wary of the lack of supervision of some of her friends, I tend to not allow he to go over there, but surprisingly enough, her friends prefer to be here. "Yes, Lily," I'll try and explain, "there's something comforting and safe about parental involvement, your friends feel it and gravitate this way."

"Yeah, I know that," Lily will say, "Can you, will you adopt so-and-so," she'll beseech me, as if it'd be that easy, or as if I'd even want another teenager around.

Her dearest friend is in a difficult situation, clearly unwanted and shuffled around state to state, and Lily's big heart breaks for this girl that she's known for years.

"She'd never act out," Lily tries to explain to me, who knows better. Yeah right, I'd just be another target for one's misdirected wrath. No, thank you, I've done my share. I can't take on the entire world.

JoJo's orthodontist appointment was at the crack of dawn, I prefer the early morning times, as there's little waiting then involved, and I get so antsy sitting still, thinking of all I need to do. I'd slept in until six this morning, the internet wasn't working, I have a truck full of bagged leaves to work with this afternoon, and even though it was below freezing this morning, it'll warm up to near 70, again illustrating why my children hate, hate, hate to wear coats to school.

And Lily only got a detention warning since this was her first time. All those tears for nothing, my fretting could've been better used over something else. Or could I just someday learn not to get all worked up?

Tsk Tsk

2011-12-01T06:39:00.004-05:00

Is tsk tsking at news stories a major indication that one has become fed up and elderly? Or is the world going to Hell in a handbasket? Whatever it is, it's just one more reason for me to want to be ever more reclusive.

I don't even wanna comment on all I read this morning, either I'm gonna sound prudish, too conservative, or possible just overly intelligent enough to be too logical, as I read about folks who just don't get it at all, as I peruse crime stories.

Probably it's those stories that irritate me the most, as I can see some of my own children using the same rationale. Honey, I've heard it all.

There's an Iphone thief in Atlanta, likely there's hundreds of 'em everywhere, just snatching the phones from folks and running off. Who gets up and plans their day that way? Who figures that's a good retirement plan? The dearth of long term thinking sure gets my goat.

I'd read recently where folks with little impulse control tend to often slide into criminal acts, that makes sense to me, and I'm happy to report that my one kid with the least impulse control is oppositional enough to be pretty darn honest and therefore less likely to commit larcenous acts.

I'll continue to bark up trees, hoping my kids will absorb some lessons in simple honesty, that they'll understand that hard work pays off in the long run, and that education helps.

Tabby's running a fever again, I don't run to the doctor if that's the only symptom, knowing it'll run its course, although our wonderful pediatrician is known for not just routinely giving prescriptions to calm down the worried parent.

I'm gonna end with a link to The Adoption Counselor's post yesterday, telling us what she, a therapist, wishes social workers knew about the adoption of older children. Honey, I wish I'd known so much more back when I first started.

Did I make mistakes? Well, of course I did, but my heart was always in the right place, it's taken longer for me to get enough working knowledge, and I feel as if I still don't know enough. Duh.

So Personally?

2011-11-30T06:34:00.004-05:00

"How do I not continue feeling like a failure?" I was asked by an adoptive mom.

As if I knew the answer. I, too, have failed to overcome genetic predisposition to violence, or criminal propensities. I can't change IQ levels, nor heal mental illnesses. We're neither God nor magicians. Maybe the best we can do, in some areas, is to just hold the fort. To just feed and clothe everyone, get them to school, obtain medical and psychiatric care, to keep their room fairly clean.

I'm a former educator, yet I've had some teenagers drop out of school. What good is my early childhood education degree? Yet teachers have their clientele drop out of school, these are free will choices by those who reject good sense. Psychiatrists have their clients progress to murder. Is this their fault for failing to delve deep enough into the brain? Of course not. Patients die, do we automatically blame the health care providers?

The Adoption Counselor once used the phrase chronically unemployed regarding one of her sons. I, too, have grown kids who are as such. I have couch surfers and mouse potatoes.

I have kids I took to church for a dozen years who are habitual thieves. I failed to change that behavior. Or did I fail? Maybe they failed to change it. Let's delve into personal responsibility.

It is my fault when I'm bitter. Yes, maybe I do have reasons, but isn't it still a poor choice on my part to remain so uncomfortable? To not move on, to not try and heal from my emotional wounds and injuries? Isn't it my responsibility to do so?

I went to see Paloma yesterday, I totally enjoy what I take away from her therapist. Weird to use the word enjoy, but when one is desperate for such knowledge, enjoyment comes to mind.

This lockdown facility allows me to take Paloma out for lunch, which we both appreciate after each session. Paloma is wistful at times, but overall she's kind of happy where she is, the family expectations, which were always so minimal as to simply contain the request, "Don't hurt anyone," isn't there anymore.

She misses our dogs clearly, but us? Not so much. Pepe is starting to miss us a bit, I've had a constant stream of phone calls from him. "Thanks for including me last weekend," he told me. Years ago it would've been, "Hell no, I don't want to be with you stupid effing idiots."

But for my pared down family to live now, with very little threat of either theft or violence? It's amazing.

Lily's blossoming into a happy high schooler, now that Paloma's main mission of making Lily, and everyone else in the county, miserable...well that's not a factor here anymore. I feel blessed that I was able to stand up for family safety, while this same mother talks about her community turning their back on her.

Well, the world at large has absolutely no clue what we endure. In their intact or blended families, there's little, if any, mental illnesses or violence. The world mistakenly thinks, as I once did, that gratitude for a roof over one's head would lead to a Walton family like existence.

Not.

Therapists are nowadays coming around to an understanding of trauma, caseworkers who've managed to not be driven away from their field by incessant craziness also are becoming more understanding overall.

The resentment at what these children previously endured, the trauma, the issues, the massive damage has all conspired into a cauldron within their angry minds, that explode into lashing out at the adoptive parents. "It's transference," Paloma's therapist explained to me. All of the children's blind anger is then transferred to us, blaming us for everything.

"You stole me from my real mother!" Paloma more than once screamed at me, viciously and physically lashing out at normal children who just happened to walk by, eventually everyone learned to retreat behind locked bedroom doors. Who lives like that?

But the children are righteously angry. I understand. I really do. The trauma alone has destroyed wiring and synapses.

Nowadays, Paloma is slowly connecting the dots, benefiting from residential psychiatric placements. But even there, with a staff to maintain her rages, she still explodes at times. She does understand that she's on the cusp of adulthood, now almost 15, where she's knows somehow she best learn to get it together to avoid a life of jail and crime.

Can she do so? I can only hope so.

My grown children all agree that I was correct on a least one aspect. Life is hard. Even when one makes good choices, life is still very challenging. When one makes bad choices, it's ten times as difficult.

"I'm obviously your son," Daniel told me, adding Mint.com, variable newly labeled savings accounts, a strong budget, and Dave Ramsey podcasts to his to do list. I grinned like a fool at the thought of having so positively influenced him. Yeah boy, Thank you Lord, I prayed aloud.

Sarah's a total chip off the old block, just as I am to Grandma, with our emphasis on many of the same thoughts and ideas.

That my other grown kids have bought homes, finished college, and are raising their children beautifully, makes me very proud, even as I still grieve for those who are still making bad choices and thereby cutting off their own legs to spite everything else.

So to that mother who feels like a failure, I do understand. I often feel like one, failing to teach morals and good choices at the very least. But, in reality, I didn't fail to teach these lessons, some failed to learn them, chose to reject all that was good and decent, while others were sadly incapable of ever learning anything. I think of one now in prison, I think of all the professionals who helped him in his youth. Should they feel they failed too? Of course not...so why do we feel that way?

Why do we take it so personally?

Another law abiding, sweet, quiet mother has a daughter in prison for dealing drugs. Was that the mom's fault? This stable mom who's never taken anything but prescription antibiotics and plays the church organ every Sunday, this is her birth child, but the genetics she passed on included free will. Duh.

It Really Did

2011-11-29T06:00:00.001-05:00

I could do this. Quiet exclamation mark inserted here, understated at least. I could build this under a tree in the woods near my upper gardens and I'd be as happy as a pig in a poke. I'll not have that dumb decorative chair in the corner, rather Shatter could sleep there. Oh the many, many plans I'm making for the days ahead, but in the meantime...

Lend your money and lose your friend.
Prov. You should not lend money to your friends; if you do, either you will have to bother your friend to repay the loan, which will make your friend resent you, or your friend will not repay the loan, which will make you resent your friend.

Dad told me something similar years and years ago after he'd loaned someone some money. They knew they couldn't repay the money, much less the gesture, so instead they treated my dad very hatefully, irrationally blaming him for everything under the sun. That was so much easier than paying it back, or forward. It just seems to be human nature, biting the hand that feeds you.

That lesson stuck with me, and I was very young when it happened.

I've seen it repeatedly happen around here and I've learned to live with it.

I get it. If someone took me away from my mom and gave me to another random mom, I'd be mad, angry, rageful and would likely hate the world. I might not ever recover from that primal loss. It's too deep and damaging of a wound.

No amount of words can change this mindset, no therapy, no resources. If someone wants to believe that I'M the reason that they are not with their birth mom, then there's just nothing I can do about it.

If their birth mom shows up later in life, and I encourage them to work on that relationship with her, knowing it can only help them to go forward, then they think I don't want them.

No, I don't want their unabated anger.

It has turned me to dust.

This is not my fault, nor is it theirs.

It came about from bad choices, and I've been kicked by mules ever since.

Traumatized children cannot be expected to simply change their identities, to suffer multiple breaks with caretakers, and then to bond successfully with some new smiling goofy lady who eventually grows kinda sad after decades of theft, vandalism, hatefulness, destruction, deceit, aggression, and lies.

I am very very thankful and grateful to my kids who do understand, who do return love and kindness, who comprehend that I have no ulterior motive other than their success, that don't make me the repository for their anger and confusion.

I want them to succeed, I do everything in my power to help them do so, only to have much of it summarily rejected.

Coming home after school yesterday, Jojo clung to me like the monkey he is, to the ape that I am. "Thanks, Mom," he told me totally out of the blue, in front of Grandma as a witness. "I appreciate everything you do."

I was taken aback, I thanked him for thanking me, "Honey, that means a lot to me," I replied. It really did.