Soaring and The Luxuries

In the early 70s, five short months after my first wedding, I discovered I was expecting a child. I was only 18 years old and shocked at the level of responsibility I would then be expected to shoulder. I was in college and I quickly figured how to make it all work. The key word was work as that's all I seem to have done ever since, but I love to work - this has all worked out fine for a workhorse like me.

That baby will soon be 35 years old and my level of responsibility has increased a bit.

I've thought of closing my blog. Of only allowing adoptive and foster parents the access, as y'all are who I write for, but I also write for me, so I can attempt to figure out my world. That said, I do appreciate my friends who read and pray for our well-being, or the many teachers who read and care deeply for my children.

The caseworkers of my children read, and this I appreciate, as I was blessed to have very caring workers who wanted the best for these children, who wanted the kids out of foster care and into a forever family, workers who stood by my children through their many placements, struggles, and then eventual TPRs they all endured.

My kids know that teachers read this, but more importantly they know that you care about them. They need that from you, but they'll rarely show that particular need of theirs as they still fiercely protect their feelings.

Miss Judy is out having foot surgery recuperation and Tony is now balking at a sixth grade trip since he knows Miss Judy won't be there. Lily quotes Miss Ellen at dinner, then Sabrina and others tell their own "Miss Ellen stories," because since this is a small community, my children have shared teachers and stories. Heck, Mayra and Javy's teacher just bought Yolie's old house.

Like my friend Paula, I've had my share of mean comments and I delete them, but heck yeah it hurts my feelings deeply. Someone said my children had crazy names. How racist of that someone. I didn't name them, I just love them. Someone said I was 39 years old and had 34 kids, someone accused me of packing them in like sardines, not knowing we have a very large house and most of my children are grown now anyway. 39 don't live here, this has been an ongoing life of mine, stretched out now over four decades of child raising. Starting in 1973, yet my youngest won't graduate from high school until 2021. That's a long, long time to spend raising children...even 39 children.

Why does it hurt me so? Why do I let strangers vomit their wrong and hateful thoughts at me?

It hurts me because I love my children and have obviously devoted my life, my resources, my past, my present and my future into taking care of them, putting them through college and helping them out forever. I didn't birth but one child. Other folks birthed and abandoned my children and are not here to clean up the messes and the damage they once wrought upon my darlings.

I've often thought, in the nights where I get no sleep because someone is puking from a stomach virus, or I have a middle schooler wetting the bed as they dream about the terrors they once endured before being adopted...well what if my critics had to come over at midnight and change these soaking sheets or hold the crying child who needs to be reassured? Why don't the critics come cook for 20 folks each night and clean the kitchen, plus get everyone to soccer? I don't drop the kids off, I cheer them on and encourage them at each and every game. I'm so dadgum proud of them.

Why don't my critics run by this morning and pick up the borax JoJo suddenly remembered he needed for a project that's due tomorrow? We have two soccer games tonight as well.

"JoJo, when was this assigned to you?" I asked.

"I dunno?" he looks at me questioningly, totally blurred by time concepts. "Maybe a month ago?"

Great. I get paid tonight at midnight, when my teacher's retirement check hits the bank. I might have a pocketful of quarters left over from Saturday's yard sale...lemme go scrounge.

But first I have to start dinner, wash breakfast dishes, do the laundry, sweep the hall, living room, dining room, kitchen and family room while my critics go on about their merry way, getting to stop at Starbucks, eat breakfast, lunch and dinner out somewhere in a restaurant thus allowing them the free time to criticize me and anyone else on their radar that day. The luxury of free time is all I envy in anyone else. And no, I have zero outside help. I do it all. Beats having to go to a gym to burn calories.

I chose to spend my life like this, I relish my family life, and I dearly love my kids, and I really wish that folks would keep their mean thoughts to themselves. I'm sorry you feel like you do, I really am, but you're also hurting my children's feelings and that's why I wouldn't publish your comments where my children could see your negativity.

Yes, it's true I'm a church lady prude. So what? I don't claim to be cool, I'm not even capable of being cool. I want to 'just be the mama.' I already had a career, I've done that, and it has now afforded me the luxury of staying home with my children and taking care of them in a world where they were once supremely undervalued by society. No one else submitted a homestudy on these particular children. No one, not you my critic, nor anyone else.

I'm all they have and they kissed me goodbye this morning, knowing I'll be here this afternoon with supper on the table before soccer tonight when my U14 team meets the only other undefeated U14 team for what promises to be an incredible matchup. I'll have their jerseys washed and ready, I'll pump my kids up with the 'attaboys' and 'attagirls' and I'll bring them all back tonight and insist on a good night's sleep so that we can get up tomorrow and do it all again in spite of those who think we can't.

Please don't interrupt me and tell me I can't do what I've been doing for many, many decades. Hate me if you want, but please allow my children the luxury of the positive ideas I'm trying to pour into their lives while I watch them soar past where society would have ignorantly once kept them.

Jeepers.

My mother, nearly 80 years old, didn't get home until nearly ten p.m. last night, after three hours of playing bridge and then cooking (from scratch) and serving the Methodist Men's Dinner at her church, apparently cleaning up after as well. She's my role model, she's where I get my interminable energy. Maybe, at age 54, I'm only beginning to hit my stride?

No one else wanted to do what I'm doing, the taking care of these particular children, so please allow me the luxury of doing so.

No Church for Me

"... I can't imagine having the strength to love someone who shows no love back."

I apologize if I've given that impression. They do love me back, this I know in the moments that they are unguarded and lucid. Yet those moments are few and far between, with Jonathan and Paloma, and if they allow themselves to express any type of positive interaction, they usually make me pay for it.

The psychological issues run so deep. The trust is so seemingly non-existent and I get the 'testing behaviors.' I understand that at face value, yet the deep logical part of me still struggles with it. The 'I'll make you pay for loving me' moments are oh so stressful. The 'my birth parents left me, and I know you'll do it too' actions suck and exhaust me, but this is part and parcel in the adoption world. This is Adoption 101, the first thing we're taught in adoption parenting classes, the main thing that is stressed. This is what happens. Period.

So I suppose I should just be grateful that I was well prepared. Thank you Emily B and MAPP training, plus the countless books I've devoured.

I'm still waiting, 48 hours later for Javy's apology. Jonathan maintained his meltdown and refused to go to church when the rest of us, minus Chuy and Javy, were dressed and ready to go.

Vanessa and Fabian made it to church, calling me, "Why aren't you here yet?" Yolie calling within minutes, Sarah and Monica also wanting an explanation and placing play bets over which kid's behaviors were amped up the most. Vanessa'd screamed back in surprise, "Javy?"

Yep. All because I wanted them to clean their bedrooms after soccer on Saturday while I scrubbed down the house and painted the pantry. Such an unreasonable mother I am. So demanding apparently. They've not done chores in a month of Sundays as we've been so busy with soccer and I guess they just became accustomed to me doing EVERYTHING.

I was furious over having to miss church and fortunately I just slammed shut emotionally and did not discuss squat with the offenders - with Jonathan, breaking first and muttering, "I'm sorry," by about 3 in the afternoon.

"Well I appreciate the apology," I'd responded icily. "But how are you going to give me back the time I lost in church? The time I need to recharge my batteries?"

"I dunno," and he wandered off, totally unconcerned.

Chuy apologized by suppertime and I launched into a 'Daniel never acted like this' explanation as he idolizes Daniel.

Javy avoided me like the plague.

So, Tony In California, they do love me, they just have funny ways of (not)showing it. I do get terribly aggravated over these control issues, yet I do understand. Children who've been bounced from place to place with little to no stability ever, internally feel as if they must exert control somewhere, somehow. I addressed this with them as well, pointed out the obvious that, of course, they oppositionally denied.

Paloma expressed astonishment, "Man, this is really weird when I'm the only normal one in my sib group," and she trailed after me all day while I washed seven loads of laundry, watered several hundred houseplants, and visibly sweated the frustration that I felt, yet did not voice, for fear of what I'd say, knowing words can't be taken back.

On the positive side - I'm still harvesting my huge, beloved salads of various peppers and tomatoes although we haven't seen any rain in a month - stupid drought. My nearly 80 year old mama, with my Tony glued to her side, harvested a bushel of sweet potatoes yesterday and Sarah blogged again. My dad, after his open lung biopsies, has suffered immensely and is just now coming back around.

Good thing as we have two soccer games at the same time tonight.

Regrets? Nah.......

Patting my own back, commending my own efforts, but duh, I'm really, really good about getting five different soccer teams to five different games and all the extra practices each week. It's what I do, and after all was said and done on Saturday, I wanted some help in cleaning up the house. Reasonable request, right?

Javy, JoJo, Jonathan and Paloma immediately went down in flames over the mere thought of such altruistic behavior. I wanted to have a hissy fit, I wanted to scream and holler, but I was in the middle of single-handedly finishing painting the pantry. Our pantry is so large that it has taken two full gallons of paint to do the job, and several days, as there's an immense amount of food that has to be taken off the shelves, and the shelves then scrubbed down (by me I might add). It's been nine years since it was last painted. This picture doesn't show the shelves on the other wall as well.

I also was washing clothes and dishes, picking up and cooking, therefore I could use some help in picking up shoes, bookbags, dirty socks and cast off clothes...could y'all, at least, keep your bedroom cleans?

Apparently not. My positive thinking visibly evaporated as I struggled to keep calm. But a calm I maintained, although I shut the pantry door and shed some tears in frustration. There were no real rages, just some meltdowns, while I kept on working and eventually Paloma came around when she noticed I'd cooked supper for everyone, yet not eaten a bite.

Like I can chew when I'm so irked?

She flitted out the back door, returning with a handful of fall Heritage raspberries in her hands, and a shirtful of cucumbers. I ate the raspberries right out of her grimy hands, realizing I really was hungry and I stooped to eating cold pinto breans later. Yuck.

The pantry now looks wonderful, I'm very happy with the results, figuratively working on redeeming my life?

A man wrote to me and asked me if I ever regretted adopting my children? A good question, and one might wonder such a thing if one is a new reader, or has read some of my posts when I'm brutally frank about the crushing difficulties.

No, Tony in California, I don't regret this. I rue the fact that their birth moms chose to drink and do drugs while pregnant with my children, as we've struggled through the damage that was organically done to their brains. I'm sad that my happiness at being their mom stemmed from the horrors they once went through. The mental illnesses and severe emotional disabilities have been overwhelmingly difficult at times, and overall this has been a very umm... challenging life...but that makes each success all the sweeter, each victory all the more to be cherished.

I often feel as if I've made no differences in their lives, or at times my frustration threatens to wipe me out, but overall, my grown kids have eventually been quite successful. We've had quite a few college graduates, several with college credits, some excellent marriages, kids who've bought their own nice homes, and raised great children, there've been good jobs and careers, and many other facets that likely wouldn't have been accomplished by my children if they'd been split up in foster care, away from their siblings, and not been pushed to excel and rise to their potentials and abilities.

Gina, 30, and Cristy 31, both came breezing through yesterday, visibly reminding me of the fruits of my struggles. From earlier bouts in foster care and split off from their darling siblings, even through an earlier disrupted adoption in another state, the two of them, and their brother and sister who'd also been adopted by me, struggled and worked oh so hard, now both home owners and college grads, both with great jobs and friends. Beautiful women now, my friends as well as my daughters, both are two who worked for decades to overcome a debilitating background, making me immensely proud of them.

No, I don't regret this at all, even though Javy and now Chuy both owe me an apology for last night. That's what life is....

A Bang For My Buck or Counting My Many Blessings

Listening to Zig Ziglar's podcasts for hours lately, driving my brain back into the overdrive gear it so prefers, two things have stood out. He told of a lady who hated her job, yet the same lady could list 22 things about it that were exceptional.

"Well duh, lady", he said, using much more appropriate terminology, "Concentrate on just those 22 aspects of it."

And so she did, reporting weeks later that she'd come to truly appreciate her place of employment.

Can't I also do that here at home? Focus on the positive and work hard at bringing about more desired changes? I certainly have the ability and the inner tools.

Besides living amidst the best school system on earth, my county also has phenomenal yard sales. I over spent today, going through two $20 bills which is more than I usually carry, yet I came home with a dozen or so Abercrombie, Land's End and Tommy collared shirts for my boys.

I bought John Maxwell books, Rudy Giuliani's series on Leadership, the Joy of Cooking for Carolina (highly recommended by Sarah as a 'must own for serious cooks' one of her personal top five), gorgeous framed pictures to spruce up my house, two floor lamps, the book pictured here, a Dr. Phil book for Monica, a stainless steel thermos, jewelry for Sabrina and Mayra plus they also got 5 shirts each and a name brand purse, a set of hair curlers and a hair straightener (oppositional ain't they), a skateboard, ceramic planters, a hanging mirror, and an outfit for Alana. All this for $40. One Abercrombie shirt costs $60 at the mall.

I will never ever pay sticker price.

A lady I often see at yard sales, buys these name brands and then sells them on ebay, making a huge profit. She'd raised four children this way, I've known her for 30 years and she had some very well-dressed children, one of which grew up to be a pediatrician, another is an accountant.

Zig Ziglar also posited that AU - Automobile University - was a must for anyone and everyone and I do agree. I have my earned college degrees that eventually afforded me a nice living and a wonderful retirement, an early one at that, yet most of what I've really learned that has served me well and kept me going involved that which I read, heard on countless cassette tapes and now podcasts. The stuff that's not taught in school but that is more than necessary in order to survive life.

I owe it to myself to keep studying.

High Cotton and Painting

I'm not very good at it but my latest passion is re-painting this house of ours. I know subconsciously I'm trying to whitewash the damage that's been done, to make superficial positive changes that can turn this ship around, as I've been working hard to crawl up out of the hole I found myself in...that one of despair when I felt I'd not made much of a difference in my children's lives while I watched so many of them make horrible decisions over the past years. I've come to the realization that they're not automatons, but simply human beings with some severe emotional disabilities and the story's not over yet. Duh, what'd I expect?

But I sure have worked hard, so very hard, to only see lawbreakers and severely hateful behavior, and that frustrated me terribly.

I'm still walking through the cotton fields with an old gospel song from The Lewis Family in my head. Googling it, I find that Alabama recorded it also. However, my point is that I feel so much better after hiking for an hour each day as it's bringing up my moods, releasing pent-up endorphins.

After staining a wooden wall in the garage, I painted the other two walls a deep chocolate brown, resulting not in a bat cave, but with some high gloss white trim, a rich, beautiful hue. The garage is our entrance hall, rarely used for vehicles, and I've cleared out so much clutter that we'd never use anyway and was weighing me down.

I have a goal to repaint my entire house by myself. To regain control of my surroundings that have irked me recently, especially yesterday as I tried to paint around a door jamb that Joey had destroyed three years ago. It's been replaced, but the damage to the surrounding sheet rock is still visible.

I'd offered to go to court with a grown child of mine who'd recently broken a law. "No, Mom, I'm just too embarrassed and ashamed of myself."

Well, that's certainly a better response than what I've seen with other recalcitrants around here. I reassured her of my love and that she can just get back on that horse she'd fallen from and ride again.

"Mama, what are you talking about?"

"Nothing, it's just an expression," I sighed.

Three phone calls from schools about 3 out of 7 in an original sib group that struggles with both academia and non-disruptive behavior. I'm fighting an uphill battle with kids who find a school setting to be debilitating.

Red beans and rice for supper, an evening at home when the kids watched the shows they'd taped during the school week, no one asking to go anywhere, as that's all we've seemed to do recently. By 10, on a Friday night, my entire family was snoring.

Now we're headed off to yard sales and soccer practices.

If You Loved Me

I remain a card-carrying, certified pig as I blasted through supper with 20 pounds of peeled and mashed potatoes for the potato bar night in which the kids load each tater with grated cheese, pepper sauces, cottage cheese, ricotta cheese, nutritional yeast, sour cream and whatever else they so crave. Washed down with milk it contains more protein than the average meat eater's fare, yet I was so rushed I forgot to change shirts before soccer.

I'd stained a wooden wall in the garage a beautiful dark wash, necessitating two trips to Home Depot, as they'd accidentally given me the wrong color, and I was too rushed to check, but I got in done with zero minutes to spare when first load came home from school. We immediately have Reading Time - get it out of the way, then I negotiate our crazy after-school schedule of this one there and that one elsewhere.

Carolina went to the second half of the first game so I could get across the highway to watch Nando finish up. He had Baby Yolie and Mayra cheering until my own big mouth arrived and I realized my shirt had varnish on it. Jeepers, don't I own a mirror?

I slapped on a sweatshirt as temps dived into the low 60s which freezes us puny weaklings...and covers my messiness.

Miriam and Fabian showed up for the final game. All three teams, last night, remain undefeated. The U14 coach couldn't make it so Miriam and I unofficially bellowed all the arm-waving calls. "I should be a coach," Miriam told me.

"Yeah you should," I encouraged knowing the rec dept is short on volunteers and Miriam played high school soccer for three years.

Since we'd eaten supper at 4:30, coming back home at 8:30, they were all again famished and so trashed the kitchen once again but...hey...I'm heartily on the side of all this positive experiences we've been encountering lately.

Fabian had kissed me when he got there and when he left. We're not mad at each other but I lit into him about his poor choices and left it at, "now you gotta pay the price. Just remember I'm here to guide you. Keep crapping it up and you'll keep reaping garbage. Duh, son."

He knows it.

Vanessa woke me up in the middle of the night with a dumb question, "What happens if you accidentally swallow Vicks Vapor Rub, Mama?"

How should I know? I've never even used it, much less swallowed it. I have some little bit of control over my mouth. Is this call I-800-that-was-idiotic?

Jeepers.

While stuffing popcorn in his mouth, covered with the Bull, their favorite drink, (no, I'm not kidding) Allen hugged me and said, "Mama, thanks for letting us play soccer," so high was he from his earlier win.

"Honey don't thank me, thank Coach Connor," as he pays our fees in the Cleats for Feets programs, saving me about $800 a season that I didn't have anyway. I think we've done this for about eight seasons now. That's amazing.

"Yeah, but you drive us, you stay and yell for us," he insisted.

"Boy, that ain't yelling. I'm encouraging you."


JoJo ruined the moment, smearing yogurt all over his mouth. "Give me a kiss mama!" Laughing so hard he shot yogurt splatters everywhere while I recoiled.

"You would if you loved me."

Ok, Edgar. Lord have mercy, who can't tell these two are birth brothers?

My son-in-law, Big Jose, called me from El Salvador to my cell, nearly bringing me to tears. We miss him so dadgum much, but hopefully he'll return in early November as we pray for fees to be waived. He'll be 35 on November 19th - sure hope to have a party then.

And in yet another proud moment of mine, "One of the most charming and personable food blogs I've visited lately is the Recipes for a Postmodern Planet blog. Like the best of the food blog on the Web, this blog really leaves you with the impact of food in a person's daily life. There are some top notch recipes as well. In particular, I really enjoyed the post for Ricotta Pancakes with Blueberry Sauce. Zoweee!"

That's my girl.

JoJo has a kiss for you...

Like I Wanna Be

Slow on the technological update, I just noticed the followers on my blog with some blogs of their own that I'll check out later after I get Martin to the orthodontist and the snacks that I'm responsible for tonight on the U14 league. Somehow I have to be in two places at the same time (6 p.m.) on both sides of the highway for U8 and U12 games. I've been pumping my U12 up, "Y'all owe Coach Tom a championship season," as this sociology professor has uncomplainingly put up with some of my most aggressive, oppositional children season after season. He's channeled much of their anger into focused energy on the field.

At 7, I'll watch U14, an amazingly talented group of my children. Opposing teams have said, "Crap, I hate it when I get there and see a Bodie," knowing they are fiercely competitive on the soccer field, frighteningly so as no one minds taking one for the team, which results in some fantastically impressive acrobatic leaps and falls. "To get there and see FOUR Bodies on a team, heck we might as well just go home," CW reported he'd heard on the middle school recess field.

That makes me feel strangely proud. Miriam and Edgar had promised the kids they'd show up also tonight, Miriam likely with someone she wanted me to meet.

Either I'm as dumb as a goat, or unbelievably a chump, as I truly believed Fabian, after seven months of excellent behavior, was on the upswing. His DJJ officer believed it, as did our youth pastor and Fabian's counselor, so at least I'm in good company for the sucker punch that came later when he suddenly left us all.

He's slid downhill fast and hard. He's being sent now to alternative school, failing everything, and seemingly with no brakes on his temper or foul mouth, leaving me nothing short of ashamed of his behaviors lately, sadly embarrassing Mayra and Javy there at the high school also. Fabian's suspended for the week, giving folks a much needed break from his disruptive behavior. I'm praying hard for improvements, for a realization that he is only costing himself. He needs to comprehend that he'll be a 17 year old ninth grader at this rate, or worse, a dropout. As a former educator that's always a bitter pill for me to swallow.

Yet I'll keep plowing through, thinking about a dear friend of mine, Miss Lisa, the children's pastor at our church who never, ever complains, yet smilingly works herself hard. Children's ministry is often thankless, we just drop our children into her very capable hands without ever expressing our gratitude as she tends to their spiritual education while also, in our case, dealing with their tough behaviors.

Lisa is also a first grade teacher, nearly my age, working diligently and successfully in two full time job arenas. My children absolutely adore her, all my children do, starting with Sarah since, decades ago, Lisa and her husband, Tracy, were the youth pastors for that age group.

Fast forward since the early 1980s, Lisa and Tracy are still full time in several ministries, they've raised two superb children, now grown, who never went astray, and they've served as very quiet mentors of mine, folks I've always looked up to and wished I had their gentle loving natures rather than my own volatility. I've never seen them depressed, nor dispirited, and, believe me, I've watched them closely for more than 25 years. They've never expected gratitude, probably have seen very little of it along the way, and they've remained so impressively, internally, spiritually strong.

Like I wanna be.

Regaining My Joy Day By Day

Sarah blogged again.

An adoption in Brownsville, Texas eighteen years ago set the wheels in motion for these two, from the next generation, to be born in Georgia to two birth sisters who'd once been separated in foster care for years. A shame that evolved into stability.

That too makes me smile as I've set about reclaiming my joy.

Mama Started...

I do have consumer debt. I'm paying Martin's $6000 braces bill monthly and he ate blue candy that Teresa's brought him, sending me off on one of my many ignored personal diatribes around here.

Another one on the phone last night to Vanessa involved my big mouth opinion, "I told you so. If you and Fabian had listened to me last December when I advised Youth Challenge, you'd have a GED by now. Why the heck are you fighting uphill against me when I'm on your side?"

A deep sigh, "I know, Mama. I know."

"Don't think I'm done," I warned. "I'm gonna stay on both of you until you have at least a high school equivalency...and I think YOU need college."

"Yes ma'am," she responded.

But it's not gonna happen for awhile. They both need to beat their hard heads on a few more walls before total realization sets in that I truly do want the very best for them. Who'd they rebel against then? They have to want it too. They have to understand that they deserve it also.

Miriam and Edgar both showed up at the soccer games last night. They have to make an effort as the games are, of course, in our county and they've both become townies, moving over to Athens and having to drive out here to see us. A tough game in which my U14, Allen, Dubs, Chuy and Sabrina, played hard, finally winning in the last minute 2-1, filling me with pride.

I get no credit for attending a hundred games a year, yet Allen visibly puffs up when Edgar's there. Miriam got a grateful bear hug from a sweaty Allen.

If we aren't shining academically, at least they're showing some true physical gifts on the field with their fancy footwork, incredible endurance, and dogged determination. On that team, 3 out of 4 of them are making super good grades. On my U12 team there's hardly a single good grade out of all four of them.

Hard to then come home at 8:30, super hyped up from playing and winning, and be expected to calm down and go to bed. Another hour of eating, slurping down water, stalling, horse playing, rough housing and squabbling over who gets to sleep with the Yorkies...it took until ten to settle everyone down which made for a grumpy morning.

Slurping water? Yes, because "The average American each year consumes 125 pounds of sugar in the form of 300 cans of soda, 200 sticks of gum, 18 pounds of candy, 50
pounds of cakes and cookies and 20 gallons of ice cream. I want to make clear just how much sugar is found in the sodas people are drinking each day. There are 7 to 8 teaspoons of sugar in some form, in the average soda drink. If you have a soda at lunch, one as a snack in the afternoon, one with your dinner, and one as you watch TV or go out for a final snack later in the night, you have consumed 28 spoonfuls of sugar." Cindy A sent me this and I don't have a reference page for it to link but it blew me away.

Tony's wearing a Tshirt he'd gotten out of a bag, which spurred another yet lecture from me, "Boy, we don't advertise soft drinks. Don't wear that shirt out in public." I also don't let them wear any tshirts of Joe Camel or other health risks. I equate sodas with morphine.

Hard for me to fuss about a delayed bedtime as everyone was so happy...in contrast to the years when Joey, the fourth member of the above pictured sib group, would irk Edgar and Sonny until they'd explode, resulting in me having to calm everyone down constantly, refereeing bedtimes like a gestapo.

I should simply count my blessings that it's only rambunctiousness prevailing at the moment, kids worrying me this morning about tonight's supper, "sign this mama," and Jack's Stone Soup class presentation that parents are invited to this morning.

Jack, here since birth, a totally nurtured and well-adjusted kid, who I found asleep last night, sitting up with pencil in hand, as he'd been drawing his version of a Google earth map. Yesterday I'd been amused as Jack spent an hour googling every place he knew in Atlanta, following the Google Earth live rendition of interstate highways, circling down to explore the airport, finding the Georgia Aquarium and deciding the best route to Atlanta from our house. "What a nerd," an older kid suggested, prompting yet another lecture from me.

"Now you got Mama started," three kids sighed....

Edgar's Baby Brothers

JoJo, making faces, is truly our resident nutbird. Oppositional, ornery, and as emotionally demanding as Edgar, maybe more so, if that's humanly possible.

He's reading, "The Hostile Hospital" from a Series of Unfortunate Events (Lemony Snicket.) Number 8, Sarah's also reading these books. I'm fairly sure she never thought she'd be book trading with JoJo.

I fed everyone french toast, am now hollering for shin guards and cleats, jerseys and soccer socks, "Let's go!" as we have two teams on the field tonight. I spent all day outside, weeding The Rose Garden, push mowing, and cleaning out around the largest compost pile - all activities that give me a glow. Finding fall raspberries was the icing on my cake today that I shoved in my mouth and didn't share with anyone.

It Could Be So...Couldn't It?

Other than a bathroom overflowing from the second floor down through the light fixtures, spewing number two and other unsavory matter, this morning was fairly uneventful, at least compared to yesterday.

One daughter has been out of our home in a therapeutic respite situation for a year an a half with no contact. I was so emotionally battered and bruised, stolen from, tired of the deputies reports and school phone calls, and pure T shocked at the level of deceit constantly emanating from her. Her parting gift involved a great deal of fecal matter, leading me to believe her RAD behaviors were nearly sociopathic.

She's Joey's younger sister and their case files were horrific. I understand the 'whys' involved, but the aftermath was even more devastating. Another brother is severely developmentally delayed, cute as a button, charming in public, but shockingly rageful at home to the point that he destroys furniture and other people's belongings.

Their birth mom was an inhalant abuser and an alcoholic, drunk as a skunk when she delivered the last one. I don't remember reading any psychiatric diagnoses, but I'm fairly sure there was some serious mental inadequacies.

I've spent, at least, the last dozen years battling some huge demons here within my house. I truly attribute my tumor surgery two years ago to a byproduct of the crazy stress load I dealt with each day, unable to either eat or sleep for very long periods of time. We're starting to come to a place, hopefully, after so many years have passed, that my children are starting to comprehend that I'm incredibly dedicated and absolutely committed to them and their futures.

Pepe called me last night, very tearfully, quoting what he's heard other therapists say, "Mom, I'm not exhibiting the behaviors that the mom reported."

"Well, duh son, You don't have the mama conflict there, nor any other emotional family demands."

"Oh," he stated, and was quiet for a few minutes. "You might be right."

Ya think?

My wayward daughter, pictured above, came for a visit yesterday, and it went surprisingly well. Later she emailed me with a request to spend the weekend. "I didn't realize how much I missed you all," and she signed it with a 'love u." This after ten years of severely negative treatment involving hatred, theft and nastiness directed at me.

She hugged us all, she's never ever done that. Ever.

Fabian called and we talked about the fact that he's gonna have to be put into alternative school, Miriam dropped by for some poblanos that Carolina cooked up again for us all. I will never not grow poblanos again. Oh my goodness, even Chuck chowed down - he with a much more sensitive stomach than the rest of us.

Edgar'd been in and out all weekend, attending soccer games with us and he took his two baby brothers up to the north Georgia mountains for the afternoon. Nothing could've made them happier.

Could the tide be turning for us? Could it be possible that even my most hard-hearted, damaged children are beginning to believe that I'm the real mom now?

I think it could be so.

I really do.

Food & Money

I had so much on my mind that I decided to take a hike first this morning and think things through as I listened to several free downloads of Dave Ramsey's financial show. For someone with as little money as I have, and as much ambition, for example this many mouths to feed, I think it's vitally important that I learn, learn and learn to manage my resources well.

In 1972 I took my first Macro Economics class in college and it was as if it were all in Latin. I couldn't even grasp the concepts, yet I was fascinated and as amazed with the economic geniuses, much as I am with structural engineers. How do they do that? Even Money magazine stumped me for years, I'd read every word and comprehend 10% of the knowledge. I'm still enthralled with it all and I was reading this guy's blog as well.

And check out The Simple Dollar guy who wrote about Money Mag's 30th anniversary.

Our pastor preached on the Dung gates, the garbage in our lives, paralleling my post yesterday that I'd stumbled upon from The Happiness Project.

Life isn't easy for anyone. Everyone has their own unique and particular load of stress and difficulties and it behooves us all to learn to cope somehow. I'm searching for answers.

Why was my locked gate unlocked this morning? Grandma'd taken Grandpa to Emory University at 6 this morning as he'd had a pain-filled night. This after he waltzed with Javy in the kitchen, teaching him how to properly dance for the upcoming Homecoming Dance at the high school. I'd made our favorite - pinto beans- and everyone was full of tacos, while I was putting up more fire hot pepper sauce and piling poblanos on the counter for Carolina to cook again.

Sarah made me some to-die-for granola, spoiling me rotten. I'd eaten two large bowls, not rationing it out as I should have done, but it was so incredibly delicious, so irresistible. Another item that I'll never buy from a grocery store again - no more boxed granola with BHT etc, just as I've dumped store bought salad dressing after Sarah's amazing vinaigrette of several years ago. Same with salsa.

I thought I'd always been the food militant around here, but with Sarah's knowledge of the food's backstory and her amazing cooking abilities, she's turned my life around. Just look at the amount of food she's already blogged about and she's just now hitting her stride.

Trucks and Motorcycles

The No Garbage Trucks!™ Pledge:
"I do not accept Garbage in my life.
When I see Garbage Trucks,
I do not take them personally.
I just smile. I wave. I wish them well.
And I move on.
And I do not spread Garbage to others.
I am not a Garbage Truck!
I do not accept Garbage in my life."
© 2007 David J. Pollay
BewareOfGarbageTrucks.com

Of course this is all easier said than done, and it's been my experience that due to the severely oppositional behavior that surrounds me, conflicts will quickly spring up to trip me.

I've long tried to remain optimistic, becoming totally thrilled many years ago to discover it can also be a learned trait. Sometimes I feel that all I learned in college and beyond is the fact that the more one learns, the more one realizes that there is still so much more knowledge to pursue. It can become overwhelming if one laments the state of the world, with all its social ills, but if one just keeps on concentrating on one's own little corner of the world, then that's all one can do, so lose the stress, shake it off, concentrate in one area, and go on about your business. My advice to myself.

Life really boils down to God and family, food and water, and little else.

I'm firm in my relationship with God, that's not to say I'm there, but I feel I'm striving forward in the right direction. My family is, and will always be, a full-time love and occupation. I'll continue to attempt to grow a ton of food, and I have a very deep well that the severe droughts have taught me to consider constantly so as to conserve a precious resource. A metaphor for everything, isn't it?

Is this a narrow-minded view of the world, or am I refining my focus only to that which I can reasonably attain?

My focus alone is right demanding, and I wish to remain positive and optimistic, so I gotta let loose of the garbage trucks. I'll happily do so as it's something I've always aimed to do anyway.

As my children grow up and try their wings, as they stumble and fall, struggle and learn, accomplish and succeed, I'll watch from the sidelines, and try not to be drawn into drama. They know how I clearly feel on every issue, there's no need for me to nag. If they want my advice, I'm here. Otherwise I'm fine with limiting contact as they make bone-headed demands on life. Call me if you need some redirection.

I'm not proud of everyone at all, but I'm totally secure in the knowledge that I never wavered from showing them the right path, I never compromised values or morals, and I always tried to teach them to take the high road, even when it seemed to be the most difficult.

I know that many will still try and lash out at me when their poor choices lead them astray. I know that, but I won't accept their garbage over it. I'm proudly stodgy and if that makes me uncool, so be it. I'm comfortable there.

Last night I heard racing motorcycles. I was up in my room around 10:30 watching the UGA-ASU game, I turned down the TV, and heard what seemed like several racers flying through the woods that surround our house - a total impossibility, as the trees are tangled and close together. Sabrina came upstairs and questioned me about it, but I sent her back to bed.

It continued, she returned to my room, so I suggested, "Well let's go check," and we tried to find a male family member to go with us, but everyone was snoring. I grabbed my cell and we walked a bit down our long dirt driveway in the dark, not a one of the five outside dogs raised their heads to follow us. I had my cell, just in case, we were in pjs and flip flops, and we could hear distant voices, which was highly unusual as we live so isolated.

We stood there for awhile, debating on calling the deputies to come check, as we really couldn't see a thing, but it just didn't feel like an emergency. Our gate, way down the hill, was shut and locked, and it was such a clear night that I suppose we were just hearing racing sounds from miles away - giving us a chance to discuss perspective, fear, and 'the big things which eventually fade into vagueness' in our lives.

So too with the garbage trucks. Maybe I'm just so literal minded that I need concrete pictures to form my thoughts, but I feel this is just such a wonderful illustration. I'm so taken with it and I hope to be able to put it into practice, as needed, when under fire.

Throw Away Other People's Garbage

Because I know that I too, little Sally Sunshine, could go down in flames, a tearful day over being so dadgum unappreciated and lashed out upon, so I have to fight hard to maintain my own sanity in a home where kind gestures, such as constantly feeding someone a hot supper every single night of the year, are treated with rageful behaviors, therefore I need to work on my own psyche which is all I can totally control.

So I read a lot, and I find that to be enjoyable and educational, just what the doctor ordered so to speak. I read The Happiness Project and these words came from there. "In other words, the best way to feel better about yourself is to do something worthy of your own respect: keep a difficult resolution, meet a challenge, solve a problem, learn a skill, cross something unpleasant off your to-do list. And one of the best ways to feel better about yourself is to help someone else -- do good, feel good."

She goes on to explain, "I recently performed a very small action that gave me a big boost: throwing away other people’s trash. I’ve always been careful to throw away my own litter, but it never occurred to me to do anything about random litter lying around.

The other day, though, I was in the subway, where an empty Snapple bottle was rolling around to the great annoyance of everyone in the car. The bottle rolled back and forth, back and forth, and I thought, “Someone should pick that up.” Then I thought – “Someone like me! Why shouldn’t I be the one to pick it up?” So I did.

I was astonished by the surge of good feeling I got, quite disproportionate to such a minor action. I also thought I could feel a palpable wave of approval from the other people on the subway – which I was probably projecting, but which also shows the effect that my tiny good deed had on me."

I do that when out on my long walks, hikes rather, but I'd also thought through the further ramifications of doing this, of throwing out other's folk's garbage, and the very obvious implications here as I'm raising other people's children who can't 'act right' due to the garbage that's been so unfairly dumped upon them.

Taking it a step further in this man's realm of 'No More Garbage Trucks,' I discovered: "The No Garbage Trucks!™ Revolution is spreading around the world. More and more people are joining David on his mission to reduce the garbage people accept and spread every day. People are taking back their lives; they are letting more Garbage Trucks pass them by so that they can focus on what is good in their lives. The world is becoming a better place every time someone joins the No Garbage Trucks!™ Revolution."

In the years I've been blogging, I distinctly remember bragging that I never got depressed... and we all know what happens when one brags. I got knocked down big time, and am only now beginning to crawl out of that pit. I've cried and grieved, stressed and questioned myself, talked to Dr. Mandy and others, and considered an anti-depressant for myself, but my final gut feeling was that would not be an option for me at all.

It would have felt like they won, I lost. Bad overcame good, and my own inner spirit just couldn't live with that. So I've been slowly trying to struggle back to where up used to be and I'm beginning to feel way better.

Last night Edgar came and wrestled with the Bubbas for an hour an a half, the kind of turn-the-furniture over melee that is positively charged, this after JoJo, Jonathan and Tony all had what must have been end-of-the-week rages with Tony shattering a large mirror in his room totally on purpose.

He spent the rest of the evening isolated, later writing me a decent letter of apology, while the other two eventually calmed down, but lost their privileges.

We all ran out the door this morning for a very grueling soccer schedule that kept us running between fields and venues until just now 8 hours later, but I managed to get away to a couple of crack-of-dawn yard sales, finding excellent deals. The kids played soccer like the champs they're meant to be.

Miss Judy sent me an article in the newspaper as a local reporter interviewed Daniel and his friend, Brent, on the airplane yesterday, two rabid UGA fans flying to Arizona for the game. Both boys dragged their mamas into the story, but that was a graduate degree for me as I'm older than so many. But yeah, who doesn't remember seeing Herschel Walker at Kroger with his beautiful wife?

I'd gotten about $300 worth of large clay and ceramic pots this morning for just ten one dollar bills - no kidding - that puts a smile on my face, as I keep clipping pothos and rerooting such pedestrian favorites as dumb canes, but hey that's what I need to do therapeutically. Walking through cotton fields, gardening and work, work, working - all functioning together to wrap up the pieces of me that were so shattered over the past few years.

So I'm shaking off other's peoples garbage - not letting it get to me so much. I like David Pollay's attitude, his very mission in life.

It's a choice. A great choice to make.

All Alone...

Yolie's in Savannah with Chuck, CJ and Mae, Daniel called me from Tempe, Arizona and gave me a GPS way of tracking him, and Monica's gone to Tennessee with Dewayne, Kortney, Alana and Mayra.

I'm all alone...

Not.

Eventually

Although, technically, my grown children's schedules aren't on my planner, I'm still attuned enough to be thinking constantly in my over-wired brain, where everyone is usually at most times.

This upcoming weekend is particularly hairy with soccer games, a soccer team picture schedule for five teams at yet another venue, Mayra going out of town with Monica's family, Yolie's family in Savannah, Daniel in Arizona, while Grandma and Grandpa are in town and can help with tomorrow's constant busyness. Jack and Lily are taking piano lessons this year which majorly adds to the schedule stress twice a week.

I've already talked to Edgar about his support and presence during the soccer games. Allen and JoJo thrive under his attention as do many of the Bubbas.

Which bill is the least important? A post I've pondered for days now. Or friends and goals?

Taking his cue from Larry Winget's excellent book, You're Broke Because You Want To Be," this blog author, Trent, sang my song. My children pull out the, "you're prejudiced," argument, that holds no water here, when I do not allow them to hang out, or even visit, a certain area on the edge of our county. Yes it is largely Hispanic, but it is not the hard-working, known for a strong family orientation that most Hispanics hold dear. Rather it is hanging out and criminal activity dominated where the parents do not monitor their children's activities at all.

I once fought this battle even with Yolie, yet I stood my ground and she made eventually very wise choices.

I'm working with another grown son about adding and subtracting, not spending more than he earns, budgeting and not thinking that 'clothes make the man,' when he can ill-afford to dress in the uber-trendy style he may now think is so vitally important. In the long run...

I do feel a sense of satisfaction eventually when I see the maturity dawn in my grown children, after they've tried it the wrong way and reaped yucky consequences, to then turn their lives around, and reap the rewards...well that satisfies me beyond belief. That's all I ever wanted for them.

Sometimes Dave Ramsey quotes Larry Burkett's old saw, "If you did it wrong the first time, go back and do it the way your wife told you to do it," along with his own description, "we give you the same advice your Grandma would give, only we do it with our teeth in place." Plain old simple logic he calls it, "where cash is king, debt is dumb and the paid off mortgage is taking the place of the porsche as the new status symbol," which are all sentiments that I both adore and embrace and try to teach to my hard-headed children.

Larry Burkett's teachings absolutely revolutionized my own understanding of money. There's no way I'd have been able to manage a family this size without using everything I'd once learned in the early 1980s from him. Now it is Crown Financial Ministries and it is explaining these same concepts that seem to elude us all.

I've read tons of financial books, leadership writings, absorbed so many strong folk's teachings that have enabled me to understand with clarity how little I really know, how much information there is out there, and how all this knowledge obtaining will be a lifelong effort for me.

And of course, yes I make wrong decisions at times, but these decisions are always based on the facts I have on hand at that moment. My children do not come with an instruction manual, I'm having to think on the go and sometimes make quick, difficult decisions but, thank God, I have very little pride left and am able to reverse decisions, change my course of action, apologize at times, move on, regroup, keep going, and keep on trying. You learn from failure also and I NEED to get that concept across to my family, often by example.

From John Maxwell, "Failing forward is about leveraging mistakes; making a realistic assessment of risks and the ability to live with the downside and experiment with new approaches. FAILING FORWARD is an investment in human success."

Sometimes I find it so ironic and massively interesting to think about where my life has led me...

A Pie To Die For

Oh my goodness. If only I had the words to describe Sarah's pie...I don't, but she does.

Laundry Basket Snake

Trying to get my walk in before meeting Daniel for lunch, how blessed am I to have a son who calls and suggests we get together earlier just to have more time to spend together and Yolie was on her way to pick me up when the school called to tell me that Paloma'd been in yet another fist fight.

My first thought was of huge resentment that I'd miss my planned time with Daniel before he heads to Tempe, Arizona for the UGA game this Saturday, thankfully Monica watched Paloma for me.

Some emails and phone calls and her meds were increased as we work to help her be able to function in a better world where aggression should not be her preferred manner of dealing with others.

We ate at a Cuban restaurant that resembles Juarez where I'd been 17 years ago to adopt Daniel, Joe and Yolie who then lived on the El Paso side of the border. I'd gone into Juarez for the express purpose of some better Ancho Poblano seeds to plant and wandered the streets having a good ole time. This restaurant started as a local shack that then moved to town and brought its ambiance and attitude. It's delicious and I always prefer locally owned non-chain food places.

I often don't describe exactly who I'm talking about for various reasons, and I also don't talk about what we're sometimes painfully dealing with around here. Some of my kids get their panties in a wad, even when they're being complimented as if their control issues must dictate my words.

And no, I'm not talking about you.

Or maybe I am.

A blog lurker called me while I was cooking supper, surprising the snot out of me, as we've been emotionally estranged while she resides in a therapeutic residential setting. She'd been reading my blog for quite some time and might even admit to being a tad homesick, which would indicate major emotional progress on her part.

"I don't know why I'm crying," she told me, surprised at her own emotions that she's usually so not in touch with. She really'd taken the brunt of the damage done by her inhalant abusing birth mom. It robbed her of common emotions, yet she's intellectually very gifted. She's pretty, but drawn to inappropriate clothing at times.

We've definitely clashed over the years.

"Tell her you'll help her get through college," Tony unnecessarily coached me.

What kid of mine doesn't know that?

And within a month, Yolie'll be living close by. Something that seemed a little less appealing to her today after learning Sarah'd found a dadgum snake in her laundry basket.

This is a picture I'd received in the mail and it's a no-no. I don't allow my children to state 'being stupid.' I only allow 'acting stupid' as there's a world of difference. Acting is a choice.

This child, nearly 14, has faced, and is experiencing, time within the mental health system and DJJ, which is exactly what he needs right now. He's homesick and has stated such, yet I remain afraid of his rages and potential to injure others. I'm fairly experienced now in abnormal child behaviors. My gut is a decent barometer now.

My other son in jail for aggravated assault, also ended up in a 15 day segregation for fighting. Yeah, someone who fights other criminals in jail...that's the kind of kid I was raising. Sent to me at age 16, after five years of residing in a state mental health hospital, he'd been my son before that as well, kicked out of an OTP program for being 'the most seriously disturbed kid they'd ever seen', the police called to school to restrain him every year of elementary school, plus tons of medications, resources, therapies and other programs.

Bipolar certainly and always given a host of other diagnoses, yet there was always something somehow very lovable about him. Unexplainable, yet he also nearly gave me a series of strokes and heart attacks while I worked for so long to maintain his behaviors. He'd busted out my van window, crapped up a long ago family vacation, peed in the front seat of the Honda on purpose, torn my house to shreds, and left me with very few remaining IQ points. This is the very short version.

It was a long, rough ride trying to raise this son from an HIV-positive birth mom who was a serious alcoholic and a drug user whose drug of choice was the very damaging, dangerous inhalant abuse.

He's been out of our home for almost two years and I am still shaking from the after effects of those years. I was totally traumatized but I also know that I should acknowledge his letter from jail in some manner, as that would be the gracious, loving, parental thing to do, but, get this...words escape me.

Or at least appropriate words.

How 'bout "Happy Birthday Joey, I told you so." Well that's not fair to a mentally ill person.

When I read his case files way back then, when his caseworker explained what was then called Level of Care and LOC5 was the worst, she'd let me know in no uncertain terms, "Well he's about a 6 or a 7," and I was naive enough, clueless beyond belief, to tell her, "Well how hard can a 7 year old kid be to parent?"

No kidding. I said that. Now she's probably thinking, "I told you so."

She was a very seasoned adoptive parent her ownself. She'd walked the walk and knew what she was telling me. But if there weren't super optimistic parents like me, who'd parent these seemingly unparentable children...besides all ya'll who're reading this?

Yesterday's worst infraction was mild compared to many of our battles. Jojo told a joke at dinner that was wildly inappropriate and his closest brother told us all, "Jojo must be going to racist jokes dot com."

I'm on them all the time about their own disparaging remarks to each other involving slurs to the Mexican population. I need a shorter word than "inappropriate' to holler. These darlings have even referred to me as a Wetback when I'm fairly positive that Atlanta (where I was born) isn't on the Southern side of the Rio Grande.

I'd rounded up my own age to "almost 60" when talking with Yolie and wanting some sympathy, or credit, for being so much older now than I was back then.

I just got snickers.

Odd Communications

I received a five page letter from a son who's in jail for aggravated assault. A daughter read it and told me how much it reminded her of the bullspit that her birth mother used to write to her from jail many years ago. Same yellow paper, same false promises to change, and long, empty, dramatic expressions of love, the same excuses and the same denials of the problems. Lies and false bravado from such a poor little me victim. I'm equally as cynical.

Another daughter needed a gift/loan, yeah right, of some money I could ill afford to give, yet something told me to do it. Write it off, hug her and tell her I love her, and go on about my business.

A letter from a son who is in a juvenile mental health facility - equally as troubling and out of touch.

I probably should just look at the bright side - that they're communicating at all...

The mailman drove up the driveway, honking for me to run out and sign for a registered letter for a son who has a long history of not paying what he owes. I'm not gonna sign. He doesn't live here, he's ripped me off long enough.

Then a long overdue bill for a daughter who doesn't steal outright, but I call it stealing from someone when one doesn't pay what one owes. Look girl, you signed a contract promising to repay. What part of decent behavior do you not understand?

A call from the school about a son fixing to be assigned to alternative school if there are any more behavior infractions. "I'm sorry Cindy, but we'll have to have a hearing."

Like I'd contest it? How many times must I insist to the authorities that I'm on their side? "I wouldn't oppose that," I told the Assistant Principal, "You won't need to have a hearing, I'd sign the waiver in a heartbeat."

"We really appreciate that, Cindy. He's been so defiant."

Don't I know it?

A long uber-emotional letter from a teen in my home, giving me her totally wrong impression and extreme misunderstanding about why an older sister isn't taking her places lately. "I know you don't trust me right now," she'd whined after being caught red-handed breaking quite a few rules. Well, Duh. But the rest of the story involves a secret, I'd not informed her about, of that sister's recent lawbreaking experience, like she's a good influence right now? I don't think so.

I got my long walk accomplished, weeded for two hours, cleaned off a very large bookshelf, piling up old magazines to send to the art teacher at the elementary school. I'd dropped my subscription to Fine Gardening as I'm not a fine gardener. I'm a dirt farmer, not someone with beautiful containers and artful arrangements. Scotty and Jonathan, armed with two large piles, were told a dozen times to take it to the art teacher , but I'll bet a wooden nickel, they both spaced out and took the piles to the front office or some other equally off base choice whining, "Mom didn't say that."

Mom did say this though as she's quoting this author a great deal lately.

I'd listened to Dave Ramsey explain that the Lehman Brothers filing shouldn't cause undue worry, Joyce Meyer exhorted me over my Ipod to keep on keeping on, and I picked a ton of eggplants to make large trays of lasagna for dinner, getting four kids to soccer practice and the others home from various activities, only to discover that several of my kids had made clandestine MySpace pages - a no-no here.

Ken Davis on Lighten Up said he wouldn't allow anyone to come in his house and yell the F word, so why on earth would he rent an R rated video with the same foul language? I so agree. My kids think it's funny that I won't rent an R rated movie just for me since I'm way the heck over the legal age. That's why, kids, I don't wanna hear it, ever.

And good stuff happens also. Paula sent me a most encouraging card, Sarah made me a fresh batch of absolutely delicious granola, and I'm looking forward to a birthday lunch this week with Daniel as my baby boy is now a very grown man. His birthday is also our anniversary of when I first met him, Yolie and Joe.

So my day was full of complications, issues and challenges, much like every day that I face. Another reason why I don't drink out of plastic cups.

Emotional Dysregulation

I don't care about current events at the moment, I'm basking in silence. Who wants the TV on? The Yorkies are snuffling around, sounding like wart hogs with adenoid issues, as they sniff everywhere wondering where all the kids disappeared to so quickly. From 6:30 to 7:30 each morning there is bustling activity, breakfast, and loading up the van while others run down the hill to catch the bus, the dogs excitedly prancing around from child to child.

Soon I'll plug back into my Ipod and happily listen to logic, something I rarely hear when my children are home.

Yesterday I spent most of the day clearing out wild blackberries and nodding my head to hours of Joyce Meyer. She'd had a two part series on Biblical money management and she'd interviewed another hero of mine, Howard Dayton. Such a no-nonsense look at human foibles.

I watched a taped version of Maxed Out late last night where a married couple earned $7500 a month, yet spent more than $8500, and couldn't figure out why they were sinking.

Can they not add and subtract? Common sense?

Maybe I'm just too simple-minded for this world, taking my Bible literally, not spending more than we have, nor eating more than I should, planting so I can harvest, and loving children who so deeply believe that they are unlovable.

Jonathan, of course, amped up his misbehaviors last night for no other reason than to wipe that goofy grin off my face. I must have self-talked myself into a stupor, eventually even he calmed down, and I never reacted in any way, shape or form, rushing to get supper on the table (Skillet Hopping John) and all of us out the door to Tabby and Ray's soccer game, picking Javy up from football at 7, and running him over to the soccer field until 8:30, after which I hooted and hollered for an hour until all the lights were out here, washing machine running, dishes done, coffee pot filled for next day, and it was my time for a few minutes of entertainment so I chose Maxed Out. I'm fascinated with it, utterly absorbed, and wishing it was prime time must-see TV for everyone. Common sense.

Wake Up America. we don't have to buy everything we think we want, eat everything in sight, go everywhere we can't afford, nor rip off this planet with our ecologically-damaging demands. Can we all just work on some little bit of a positive change? As I'm walking once again, I knelt to pick up a brown glass beer bottle to take home and recycle when I had an Uh-Oh flash.

What if someone I knew saw me bopping down that paved road with a bottle of beer in my hand?

Today I'll take a bag along to offset any potential wrong speculations about me.

The first day of fall is soon upon us, yet my daily mongo-large salad of cucumbers, tomatoes, purple bell peppers, green bell peppers, and sweet yellow banana peppers is still going strong. My squash gave out with a sigh, gasping for rain, but the peppers are prolific. Why do I grow colorful food? Read this.

"Oh Cindy, I sure wish I had your energy," I hear so often. OK, it's easy, cut out sodas, meat, refined carbs and high-fructose corn syrup, and you'll have it. I eat a lot of food, probably way, way more than most folks, but it's high-energy stuff. Common sense.

Common sense is my invisible buddy and I suppose that's why I find this illogical aspect of child raising here with traumatized children so absolutely befuddling. My children react against it, don't trust it, and definitely do not possess it. Dysregulation?

"Emotional dysregulation can lead to behavioral problems and can interfere with a person's social interactions and relationships at home, in school, or at place of employment. Common manifestations of emotional dysregulation include angry outbursts, yelling, screaming, crying, ripping up papers, throwing objects, aggression towards self or others, and threats to kill oneself."

This is such a perfect example of my Paloma, except the threat to kill oneself, her aggression is always directed at hapless others. Always.

Living with children like this is more than stressful, I remain hyper vigilant, always on alert, constantly checking to see what everyone is doing, and very sensitive to outbursts, be they happy or sad, it still needs tending to, just to monitor situations.

Since Process mentioned this two nights ago, I've been reading up on it in a big way. I'd not considered this word carefully enough. believe it or not, with all the mental health resources available to us, I'd only heard it from Dr. Mandy, not from any agencies or other facilities that I've worked with in getting help for my children.

I've always simply referred to this as a rage, it's very interesting to learn about it as a behavior with a label. I'm still googling and reading, always needing to learn more, to try other ways of parenting as this whole common sense aspect fails me at times, or at least eludes me.

Changes

"I wonder if shaking up their routine more often would be beneficial? 500% more difficult for you, but would it desensitize them to change?"

Good question. As usual, I don't know the answer. A social worker, Process, suggested The National Child Traumatic Stress site and I've been plowing through it's resources.

It's up to me to provide a tremendous amount of stability and structure for my children, and I do so, of course. It surely makes everything flow so much more smoothly than if I allowed chaos to prevail which would then traumatize me, but I cannot inoculate my children against change, as it is inevitable whether we like it or not.

First off though, I must provide a very solid foundation for them which I've learned is a never ending attempt.

I remember leaving Gina at her dorm in college, hardly 30 miles from our home, but Yolie stated then, "It looks like we kicked a puppy to the curb," as Gina stood so tiny, forlorn and scared. Yet she utterly thrived there. Absolutely did very well and continued past there at UGA to earn a science degree.

Javy and I talked yesterday about him being the oldest of his sbling group and how well he'd been doing. 15 now, grades are a challenge but he can pull through, his manners are astonishingly gentlemanly, and now playing both football and soccer, he falls out each night exhausted, yet he's still helpful here at home while his very gifted brother, Chuy, now struggles with some issues. Javy leaves each morning at 7:30 and usually goes full steam until 7:30 or 8:30 each night with all his practices. That's a long expanse of time to be so positively engaged in productivity.

Bart blogged beautifully about two of his sons, two contrasting birth brothers.

CW advised me not to tell Tabby that I'd seen her Pre-K teacher at a store, "Why set her off?" he'd wondered aloud, but I did decide to tell her later, and now that she's responded so well in therapy, instead of a meltdown, she hugged me and smiled her huge charming grin.

"I really miss Miss Donna," and she ran off to play tossing over her shoulder, "And Miss Terri too!"

Tabby thinks she's pretty cool now at Big School, packing her snack each morning, holding hands with her niece Kortney, and hopping out of the van for the day.

A fifth unadopted sibling of a sibling group called me yesterday but I wasn't there to take the call. Most of my children have other siblings out there somewhere, there's three different ones that immediately spring to my mind right there in East Texas, I hope Hurricaine Ike missed 'em.

Since I've been reading for some 50 years now, I've amassed a lot of books, thanks especially to a lifetime of yard sales and great deals. However who needs fiction book from the 70s? Even non-fiction that I used to hang on to because I needed to refer to the information is an outdated fancy. Duh, google it girl.

Between Goodwill and other donation sites I am slowly culling only that which I think I still need, gardening books for sure, but what about all these back issues of Horticulture? I do go back and re-read them and look at the pictures like a kid.

I think I need a nice long walk to clear my mind and start my week of soccer practices and games. Five different teams amount to a pretty demanding schedule plus Sabrina's cheer leading and Javy's football, but it beats the tar outta court dates and other negativities that seemed to have sucked me dry over the past several years.

The time pressure of five game schedules is a positive one. Saturday I stood between two fields, spinning like a top, watching two games simouteaneously with four kids on each team - both winning and both knowing I was watching intently and yelling encouragement...because that's what I do.

Foster children are obviously traumatized by their repeated moves, and their inner feelings of abject powerlessness, as they are seemingly shuffled hither and yon for no discernible reason, it's as if they're blown by varying winds of the moods of adults who simply feel incomprehensible needs to bust apart sibling groups.

Or so it is perceived by the wounded children who're moved constantly.

When the Big A word is used, when they're reunited with their siblings in The Adoptive Home, do you think it means squat to a tree? Get real, and tell me why and how these children could possibly begin to trust this new adult? This knuckle-headed mother who is positive that she's their forever mom, but to the child, she's just another well-meaning lady in a long line of interchangeable players.

The only thing the broken child can then control seems to be the mood of adults. The child will rage without a trigger, over anything, everything and nothing, because they then feel some sense of control over a situation.

If nothing else, they can piss people off.

That may be all that they possess. That ability to enrage, and eventually it fulfils the inner sense of powerlessness, momentum builds, and that's who the child has become.

Sucks for the parent certainly.

It's taken a very long time for me to step back and truly understand that this isn't about me. Y'all have figuratively dried my tears, heard my side of the story, and commiserated with me about your own children, and literally that proverbial light bulb blinked over my knotty head this morning as JoJo, Paloma, Tony and Scotty all fell apart because I dared to upset the applecart.

Sarah and Preston had quietly decided, without any fanfare at all, to have Hazel's Baby Dedication during early service (8:30) this morning. We usually go to Sunday School first, then late service and I threw everyone for a loop, only informing them of this the night before to eliminate the repetitive questioning and meltdowns that I knew would follow our change in schedule.

Man, I called that one right.

I won't detail the meltdowns, but somehow I managed to ignore most of them, and continue getting everyone ready for church. A good chunk of our family was there to support Sarah and Preston. Preston read a prayer he'd written for Hazel that took down part of the congregation, tears springing to their eyes, as it was so moving.

When we all went up front, I'd as usual, strategically placed myself where I could keep my eye on most of my kids who're prone to hitting, tripping and annoying each other, but Yolie glided to my side, "I've got the 'control part', you go be with Sarah," allowing me to stand next to my oldest, her mother-in-law on the other side, us properly supporting the situation.

At 4'11" Yolie can totally control my rambunctious bunch with one steely glance at any offender, they're just not gonna buck Yolie. Then she substituted for another teacher in th 4th and 5th grade class where Jonathan and Scotty then were the angels of the bunch, again they weren't about to go up against Yolie. They may be irritating and oppositional, but crazy they ain't.

My new friend, Kelly and her family joined us, looking for a home church, they all got there at 8:30 as well, joining me later for Sunday School also.

Preston's mom, Edith, and his sister, Georgeanne, ran interference for me, corralling my children when I couldn't get across the room in time. Our Sunday School class turned the tables in another direction (setting me off much like my children), forcing me by default to sit up front, rather than in my comfort zone with Susan and Sarah.

Paloma went after Scotty in the van going home from church and because we're home earlier than usual, my children are all out of sorts and full of stinky
vinegar attitudes.

Sweet ole Javy turned 15 and Joey's gonna hit 20, likely incarcerated, but at this point in his life, it seems to be a personal choice driven by his inability to function in a world with authority figures...yet he apparently needs them, his jailers, for three hots and a cot.

In sharp contrast, Javy's playing two sports, doing fine in school, church and at home.

A Fifth Soccer Team Going Now

Javy got drafted into our fifth team this morning, arriving at the park we found an opening on the U17 team so somehow he's gonna balance high school football and a soccer team. They won 5-1 so he's happy.

Edgar joined us and watched all five games like the good big brother he tries to be.

"Are you Javy's father?" one mother asked him, hearing so much praise coming out of his mouth, directed at Javy's efforts.

So surprised at the question, Edgar had no immediate answer. I butted in, as usual, and explained they were both my sons.

"You never know these days," she explained herself.

A good long day on the soccer fields, exactly where my children all wanted most to be in the entire world.

Sarah blogged about her own trust issues.

Walking My Blues Away

I'm making my old walking habit a new priority for me. Stress is interminable, it's debilitating, and I don't want it to become a depression. Walking down dirt roads gives me a great sense of peace. I have to make myself find the time because I'm always too dadgum far behind in everything else and I stress my ownself out about it. The cotton fields sooth my brain.

My exercise this morning seemed to have consisted only of nodding vigorously in agreement to everything Linda Up North said regarding minimalism.

Paloma got kicked out of school by 9:30 in the morning for fighting on Friday, I'd received another call from the high school about Fabian's defiance and disobedience, but, at least, it was from a sympathetic friend who works there, understanding what I'm up against around here.

I had an odd call, a lady who tracked us down, and told me she'd come down our dirt road, and waved to someone who must have been one of my kids working on a house. I listened suspiciously for a minute, not taking it all in at first, as she explained different connections we have between us and that her friend was there, an adoptive mom to 6 kids, stressed out and taking a break.

That part I understood. I'd just stomped down to Yolie's new house to blow off steam.

Then she told me where she lives. Dadgum, girl I can spit from here to your house. I'd thought. Her kids ride the bus with mine, my own kids with finely tuned internal radars on high-alert, trailed in and out of the room, wondering aloud and questioning me about who I was talking to right then.

Sarah, Yolie and I went to the hospital and met my newest, quite beautiful grandbaby, Marissa, and then I'd high-tailed it through all my other chores, needing to get supper on the table and laundry done.

I'd literally run through Kroger, tossing gallons of milks and blocks of hot pepper cheese in the buggy, just buying staples and ending up spending $130 just to get us through the weekend, but it ain't like we get to a restaurant ever to sit down, imagine what that'd be? I'm boggled about thinking how I'd keep the kids quiet and calmed down out in public like that, as their exuberance knows no bounds. Dinner at home is always lively as everyone has a lot to say after being away all day at school.

We're facing four soccer games this morning before noon, and a busy weekend, temperatures in the low 90s according to my best friend, the Weather Channel, as the remnants of my garden fry dryly in the drought, not with any sizzle, just a crackle.

Ten Million and One Reasons Why Not

My JoJo is such a bird, but when he wants to attempt a feat, he can be charming and helpful as he demonstrated last night, joining Sabrina and I, while we tried to help Lily with a math puzzle homework assignment that only served to remind me I was a sixth grader 42 years ago and that things have changed.

Chuy, my gifted one, finally stepped in and showed us all the errors of our way, yet it took him until past ten to help Lily complete this chore. She informed me this morning that she'd fretted so hard over that task, that she'd forgotten a paragraph assignment and, of course, the printer balked on me.

I'd read an email from a reporter asking to send a TV crew to follow us around.

Y'all I just don't hear from God that it'd be the right thing to do. Number one is we are boring. Who wants to watch a big-mouthed mama in raggedy clothes picking up crap all over her house while muttering? Who wants to watch aerobic laundry doing? Or me bellowing on the sidelines at a soccer game? Or bending over weeding for hours? Hauling recycling? Sitting in court crying over my children? Shaking when the phone rings? Talking to therapists, probation officers, administrators, teachers and policemen?

Not me.

I don't think that's what we should do. It's a deep gut feeling that I have, in that I don't believe we are special. I'm trying my best to keep us low-key and normal, can you imagine the stress something like that would put on my children? The meltdowns would be enormous. There'd be no benefit at all, this wouldn't entice people to adopt, which would be my only desire. This wouldn't bring positive attention to adoption, it'd just confirm people's decisions not to adopt from the system. Who'd want what we have?

After soccer practice, we ran to the middle school to pick Memaw up from an away cheerleading event. A few minutes early, the boys can't just sit in the van, they exploded out of it with a soccer ball, and a dozen of them played there while waiting for the bus to arrive. "There's your family, Sabrina," she was told when her bus swung into the lot, "You're sure lucky to have such a lot of brothers and sisters," she was told wistfully as my children are often so informed. My kids generally roll their eyes at that absurdity, although they do find comfort in our numbers - it's just too difficult for them to explain to outsiders who didn't grow up traumatized by the system and their birth families.

But we're not the Waltons, we're not the Brady Bunch. We're a load of children with significant issues, and many are not age appropriate, but rather fall into an infantile range. None of my children would want the world to see then crying in my lap when they're pre-teens. Other 12 years old don't do that...duh, other 12 years olds have been properly parented, not moved from place to place, and abused and neglected.

We're not a pretty sight. We're not for entertainment purposes, I'm here blogging to empathize with other adoptive parents and according to my comments and my emails, my mission is successful.

A long one last night from a mom in similar straits. She wrote my story, as I write hers each day. What I go through is not uncommon, although it often seems deeply debilitating to me as a mom...and to this other mom. If you've only adopted one child from the system, you're very likely to encounter bits and pieces of that which I've so often described. I'll bet that mama, last night (a dear friend of mine) felt better after spilling her guts. I know it works for me, as I've now written several thousand pages here in cyberspace about our own outer space experiences.

My granddaughter, Blanca, asked me at breakfast, "Wouldn't that cramp your space?" as she considered a TV crew in the kitchen. Ya think?

I appreciate this reporter contacting me and for even thinking we'd be interesting on any level. I'm flattered, of course, though not at all tempted to add such a level of intolerable stress. I need to keep focused only on my kids, not on how we'd appear on TV.

Maybe people would then offer to help us financially? But I want a simple life, I want my non-materialistic emphasis, I want to meet our needs, and not to think about largesse. I want to send my kids to college and to teach them about 'creating rather than consuming' I do not mind, at all, scrambling to make ends meet. It's a challenge that I relish. I do get help as it is. My sixth graders are getting scholarshipped to a 4 H camp in a couple of weeks and we have college scholarships. We have everything that we need.

We have four soccer games tomorrow, I need groceries for the weekend, Javy's turning 15 on Sunday, and Carolina offered to make a tres leche cake so I need to go buy what she needs. She's super stressed while waiting for Big Jose to hopefully return in November, and she cooks to relieve her sadness, just as I weed to relieve my own tensions. Yolie and I pigged-out yesterday on churros dulce.

We're so not TV material, but thanks for asking. We're all very flattered. This lady has been reading my blog, and the kids had a really good time this morning at breakfast demonstrating how awful they'd act if there were cameras around. Like they need a reason to act up?

"I'd moon 'em," I was told.

"Heck, Mama'd moon 'em!"

No, I wouldn't. I may now be traumatized also, but not that negatively affected.

"I don't want my birth mom to see me, to find me," one wide-eyed child stated in alarm.

"Honey, I know. That's reason number 10,000,001 why this wouldn't be a good idea."

I have very troubled children. Children who want to sit and cry, children who want to heal, and who want to not be different. I have to help them get there without a spotlight or a TV crew.