My Golden Boys

"I'm your golden boy, ain't I?" he frequently asks because one day I marveled at his golden skin and amber eyes. In middle school now, wanting shaggy hair and a sullen expression, thankfully he still smiles and is goofy around here where there are no girls to impress.

Last night I told another son on the phone that he too was golden, as was yet another who'd also never been arrested for anything. We call that progress in our world.

"I don't want to be your golden boy," he fussed, oppositional and looking for an argument. Like that's the real issue that he won't let me blog about when I truly want prayer over him for his safety. I'll just pray harder then.

Whatever.

This ain't 1-800-Pickafight, maybe I should be a toll call; a reality check. See why I have phone PSTD? It always seems like folks are calling me about problems like the schools, psychiatric facilities, the police, etc.

I fight being burned out, I fight it constantly, always looking for answers and ways to help my darlings.

I drove two hundred and something miles today for a therapy session for a hospitalized kid who finally has started expressing his deep anger at what his birth mom did to his birth father. Murder isn't something one easily forgives. My son punched out a kid there, gave him a black eye and later processed his anger. I pointed out that it was fairly tough for an old lady like me to live with someone that angry, someone who constantly lashes out.

Sent this link to a video about children from foster care, it's on target and I'm so over wanting any kind of acknowledgement of gratitude, just stop emotionally lashing out at me would be enough. How much pain should I, could I absorb in order to make their playing field level?

I tiptoe through hazardous and treacherous minefields of 39 children's unique and precarious emotions, I've celebrated some amazing times with them and some tough, tough years. I do need to distance myself from grown folks who want to get drunk and do drugs, or to break laws, or those who mean only harm to me. I'm sorry I can't fix everything; I'm feeling rather content with the amount of therapy I've put into place over the years, but later when grown kids make bad choices, they've got to deal with it. I've had several other adult professionals tell me this recently; it's something I need to hear because I don't want to burn out.

Earlier I'd been reading something aloud to Big Joe in The Bible, a verse I'd read many times over the years but didn't understand until yesterday. Sarah had told me about spiritual maturity - we were talking about Christian music - but it applied to my Ah-Ha moment. Probably more shockingly is Joe and I are both reading John Bevere books at the same time. I'm just glad I lived to see the day...

Unable to sleep last night, tossing and turning, I have 18 Golden Boys, some are just kinda tarnished at the moment.

A birth child in a family of 18 delivered a washing machine here yesterday afternoon, becoming Sarah's newest hero - an example of a survivor who's heart is amazing still after everything. He's my hero too, I'd have hugged him in pure T gratitude but I just don't hug other women's husbands. I just stood there and babbled in my own version of shock and awe.