A Snow Event in March?

When Sarah, now 35, was in the church youth group, I volunteered with Pastor Tracy, who ran one of the most intense, time-consuming, and ultimately rewarding ministry I'd ever seen. Thanks to Facebook, as well as living in a small county, I suppose I can still account for the whereabouts and goings-on of just about every single former teen from that past group.

Ten of my middle and high school kids are in the Discipleship Now weekend retreat. They've been participating in this event for several years, but as I googled it, I'm slowly realizing it's really big. I didn't want JoJo to spend the night at anyone's house, what with his recent weapons charge, so I went over to our church, which is hosting the event this year, late last night to bring him home.

Nine local churches are participating and our sanctuary was full of teenagers listening intently to the guest speaker. Maybe 400 teens and the entire room was quiet and spellbound.

I know, from experience, that teens often eventually rebel, I know I certainly did, but that they'll come back around. It hurts a parent to see kids make bone-headed mistakes that batter their soul, but I'm finally to a point where I can step back and let them live their lives, reap what they sow, and to still guide them when they ask.

Talking to a mom last night, who'd raised an adopted son from birth, now in his 20s, still a bit anxious over his challenges several years ago, she and her husband had done an exemplary job of raising him. I was reassuring her that it was normal for him to have acted out somewhat.

JoJo is in deep doo-doo. It may have been a bladeless boxcutter, but it is still a weapons charge, and he'd brandished it, playfully in his own impulsive mind, but threateningly, as determined by the school.

He is somewhat aggressive, extremely impulsive, and saddled with anger issues, but he is not a disturbed child, just emotionally confused, and possibly damaged to a degree by the alcohol consumed by his birth mom. Stuck with me for his two week suspension, we've discussed maybe some mild meds to slow down his wild impulses.

"I won't do it," he exclaimed, "I'm not mental."

"Child, it might be your only way to complete sixth grade," I warned, deeply concerned over an upcoming disciplinary meeting.

Hanging with me as I ran dumb errands yesterday in the rain, I detest anything that keeps me from being home, I get no kicks from grocery shopping, a really pretty lady came up to me in Wal-Mart and stopped us, "Aren't you the blogger?" she asked, no doubt not wanting to call me Big Mama in public.

She reminded me she'd once contacted me, wanting to take me out to lunch, but that I'd explained I was way too busy to stop and eat. An adoptive mom herself, we chatted for a minute, my stomach growling, as if to illustrate the no lunch philosophy, she's parenting a child with Aspergers and a daughter from China. "Maybe next fall?" I suggested hopefully, thinking possibly, surely I'd have Jonathan and Paloma receiving the residential help that they so need.

JoJo was shocked. "Dude, how'd she know you?" Rarely leaving my dirt road, seen only on soccer fields throughout the county, his brain clicking into gear, coming up with nothing.

I'd gone for a follow-up to the osteopathic physician I'm seeing in order to rebuild my battered body. She saw my toenail hanging on by a thread, "That looks awful, what happened to you?"

I very briefly explained the pitfalls of living with mentally ill children, aggressive ones and those with zero impulse control. "You need to write to President Obama and explain the lack of mental health help available," she stressed firmly, giving me an idea...

Theresa's post pissed me off mightily, every adoptive parent will face this and be outraged beyond belief. This should not be so. I, too, have been humiliated and hurt, shocked by the suspicious tone taken towards me, and bumfuddled by the backwardness of the situation.

Sharon's fighting similar heartbreaking battles. Yes, I want to find a used copy of this book, although I know it'll raise my usually low blood pressure that was around 112/68 yesterday. All my vital signs and indicators were surprisingly good considering my stress load.

Wanting mightily to emotionally dwell on good stuff - Ray Ray, our leap year young'un, turns FIVE today. He wanted a gift card to Barnes & Noble, from his Bita (me), so that he could choose his own books. Both Sarah and Preston are voracious readers, now Ray also, you know that makes this former Librarian turned Media Specialist proud.

Georgia's yo-yo weather has given us the promised, much-needed rain that is threatening to turn into a snow event for tomorrow, forcing me to drag in three flats of Sweet William and a flat of Nicotiana, that could, or would have survived if planted, but not unprotected in the flats.

I now have 25 flats going of everything, 36-72 plants in each flat, necessitating major sprawl in the Big Back Garden, thrilling me beyond belief. All my daffodils have bloomed, as have the hyacinths, they'll bend over protesting under any snow cover- I don't think we've had any accumulation in a couple of years - but they'll be fine.

It's so quiet with ten kids gone, leaving me six lonely souls, remarking constantly, "Where is everyone?", as if they've been deserted forever.

I'd texted Dee about this from a red light, the other day, stuck in Atlanta traffic, apparently just a few miles from her then. (Dee, I was at Beaver Ruin Road)

I used my upgrade at Verizon plus Daniel's army discount, since we share an account with several lines, to enter the 21st century, now armed with a Blackberry Curve, I can publish comments, check the weather radar, email and text where ever I am, considering I spend six months of the years on soccer fields, I'm going to make use of this gadget, loving it already.

I read this in the Wal-Mart parking lot, laughing my butt off, sharing it with JoJo when my friend, Merilee, sent this one:

A blond calls her boyfriend and says, "Please come over here and help
me. I have a killer
jigsaw puzzle, and I can't figure out how to get started."

Her boyfriend asks, "What is it supposed to be when it's finished?"

The blonde says, "According to the picture on the box, it's a rooster."

Her boyfriend decides to go over and help with the puzzle.

She lets him in and shows him where she has the puzzle spread all over
the table.

He studies the pieces for a moment, then looks at the box, then turns to
her and says,

"First of all, no matter what we do, we're not going to be able to
assemble these pieces into anything resembling a rooster."

He takes her hand and says, "Second, I want you to relax. Let's have a
nice cup of tea, and then ..." he said with a deep sigh . . .

"Let's put all the Corn Flakes back in the box."

Impending Weather

Of course current events are important, but I've found myself pulling back a great deal from the bombardment of bad news one sees on TV, or reads in the newspapers. I check the weather pages at several sites though with great frequency as my entire mind, body and soul seems to be gravitationally entangled with the results of each meteorological prediction.

Yesterday's local newspaper claimed our drought will continue, several forecasters have used the nasty words 'four years,' which I hate, as we're only halfway through that time period. For my entire gardening life, as long as I can remember, I literally vibrate with excitement at the possibility of rain. I love thunderstorms, find them fascinating and refreshing and even in the dead of winter, I intuit the amount of water necessary for root growth to continue on in my perennials and since we use well water, the vitality of each rainfall event cannot be underestimated.

Today we should get a deluge, bringing to mind an old Jackson Brown song, which then causes my hyperactive brain to flit to a TV show Life on Mars that I find enthralling, as the police detective finds himself time traveling back to 1973, the year Sarah was born.

I'd spent nearly an entire day in the Atlanta area in a meeting regarding Teresa's therapeutic interventions, hardly arriving home in time to pick up the elementary school kids, something I must do for the rest of the year since Paloma was kicked off the bus. She raged yet again, here at home in the evening, because she wanted to control kitchen issues, but we all stepped around her internal mess and outward detonations.

"Who hit you?"my mom had asked, noticing a large purple bruise appearing on the back of my upper arm.

"No one," I replied, thinking over the week's past events.

I'd not been hit, not at all, but flare-ups occur with such regularity, due to a total overdose of impulsivity and anger issues, and my first response is always to jump in the middle and stop the mayhem.

Mayra'd beat me to it yesterday when Allen and JoJo again tried to settle their differences with their fists. She's strong as a horse, I was right behind her, but more importantly Javy was home to contain Allen's wrath at JoJo, who was again pushing Allen's buttons with deadly precision.

Hard to calm Allen down when he's that angry, fortunately he was so furious that he cried, thus releasing his tensions, but there was no way for me to be able to go pick up Chuy from practice, even with Yolie here, so we'd had to call Chuck to do so, as he was on his way home anyway.

I have no real idea as to the source of this bruise, barreling through life so fast, clumsy as well, there's just no telling, no accounting for its source.

The impending rain'll slow me, but just a little. I got the raspberries planted, yet have made zero headway into the asparagus roots nor the strawberries. I have ten tons of weeding yet to do, need to clean up all the pathways, and haul more wood chips, but hey, I have the rest of my life to tend to my gardens...and all this I anticipate with such excitement and fervor.

Just Another day

"I have good news and bad news," Daniel began our phone conversation.

Having already fretted over him jamming a finger playing basketball, I braced for him to tell me it was broken, knowing he was going to the University Health Center.

Fortunately, he was then at the UGA baseball game, the second in a series I'd have loved to have been attending, and was sending me a picture of his friend, Mitchell, pitching while updating me on the score and various plays of the game.

That's how traumatized I now am. I've changed my cell phone ring so that I won't automatically flinch when I hear it. Family members have a different ringtone. The school calls sends me into an orbit of dread.

I'm sure DJJ must recoil when it's me calling. I'd been to court with Pepe, in which he'll likely be getting some help again for his issues, "I really wanna return to my family when I'm better," he told our awesome juvenile judge, trying to appear sweet while in shackles. Chuy had to face him down, the Judge suggested Chuy tell Jose (Pepe) how that attack made him feel.

Chuy's jaw tightened, he fought tears and told Pepe, "I was scared."

Pepe hung his head, apologized, and knows he has severe anger issues. Someone always gets hurt.

I hadn't a bit more gotten home, changed out of my monkey suit (church clothes) and back into my uniform (work clothes) when my cell rang, informing me Paloma was fixing to blow.

A flare-up between herself and the school guidance counselor in which Paloma found herself enraged because the GC was being logical. That's enough to prompt destruction in her mind.

By the time I got there she was in a full blown meltdown, refusing to obey any school authority, yelling at me the minute I walked in - OK, child, I hadn't even been involved in this altercation - I was quiet, calm, urging her to just come get in my truck and let's go home.

"NO!" she roared, running to the bathroom in the school clinic and slamming the door loud enough to shake the cinder block walls, banging around, eyes ablaze, and steam coming out of every pore, or maybe it was smoke.

I'd found yet another burned piece of cardboard from Jonathan as his behaviors escalate.

I knew I had to tread carefully to not fuel her internal flames, the GC equally as calm, still using understanding, or trying to be logical, but instantly understanding the minutia of the situation, herself an adoptive mom, but of a baby girl from China.

I called DJJ, Miss Kim's cell number, but she was in a sick trance. Truly as ill as a ICU patient, I felt terrible for bothering her, so I called her supervisor, but received no answer.

Principal, GC and I pondered calling the deputies because by then Paloma had been in and out of the bathroom and discovered she could actually lock us out of the entire clinic, but was thwarted by a custodian, further pissing her off, for lack of a better word.

The school principal was cringing from the racket, the door slamming, handle beating, and the stomping and kicking. "How do you DO it, Cindy?" he asked me in bafflement, shaking his head at such demented behaviors.

My own eyes were obviously stressed out, I had no answer.

Paloma stormed out the front door in front of some surprised parents, stormed back in, slamming doors, causing school personnel to back up in shock.

The GC and I waited it out. Calm on the surface, my heart was pounding with stress and trepidation.

Within an hour, she went to my truck, wouldn't put on her seat belt (another control issue for her constantly - "You can't make me!" she'll roar gutturally), opening the door over and over while I try and drive home, scaring the purple snot outta me.

At home, she slammed around, sitting down in the Lazy Boy chair, rocking 100 mph until the chair itself was propelled from the living room, through the kitchen and jammed in the pantry door opening. I folded clothes, keeping a wary eye out, knowing not to fuel her flames, and finally she calmed down and asked for a snack.

"Not until you take your meds," I bargained, afraid I'd stir up yet another hornet's nest of rabid bees.

"OK," she chirped, a complete turnaround from the previous hour. The difference was astounding.

But within the next hour, she blew up at Jonathan, and then Javy, her 15 year old birth brother who looked at me with very sad eyes, "Man she needs help, Mom."

Ya think?

My Screaming Inner Soul...But With Joy Bursting Forth

Miss Kimberly called, and offered to bring home my soccer team kids from school, so that I could get away to the UGA baseball game on time, Yolie here to babysit, and three sons, Jack, Martin and Javy, accompanied me to Athens to meet Daniel and Lauren there for a superb time. A pitcher on the opposing team had played Little League and high school baseball with Daniel, and I was very pleasantly surprised to run into quite a few parents and former players from those very fun years when Yolie, Chuck and I went to every single home game, and as many of the away games as I could then manage.

Sitting in the stands, inhaling baseball air, exhaling the stress of stubborn, faltering attempts at managing mental illnesses, unable of course to turn my mind off, I still had a wonderful evening. I came home to a kitchen full of dirty dishes, as I'd served supper so early, and a toilet that needed plunging, illustrating and capping off my carefree hours at a ballgame.

I'm reading a spectacular book by Dr. Christiane Northrup, The Wisdom of Menopause, that is telling my own story out loud. Sitting in the waiting room, at the Behavioral Office, nodding my head and underlining, practically mumbling big ole Amens! audibly, I just couldn't put it down.

An aside, as Sarah somehow is fitting in jury duty this week, she'd recounted that our UGA football coach also was called. He, too, was underlining in a book which Sarah craned her neck to see the title, no doubt thinking that Mama, with her big mouth, would just go on up and ask him what he was reading...well heck, inquiring minds want to know.

But back to my own narrow, circumscribed field of reference, this Northrup woman is explaining exactly how, and why, I've recently and strongly felt the way that I do, craving, absolutely needing, and demanding pure unadulterated solitude as much as possible.

At this time in a woman's life, she becomes the queen of herself, no longer bound by what society may want or expect of her, but rather way more concerned with the screaming needs of her own soul. Most women have been nurturing caretakers of others for decades (another bellowing Amen to that buddy) and when midlife sneaks up, the woman may find herself in her most creative phase yet, when her own goals seem utterly and earth-shatteringly important and desirable to achieve. "Midlife fuels this with a volcanic energy that demands an outlet."

Preach it, honey. I'm so listening, feeling my own soul soar and holler out loud.

A 631 page book that excuses, I mean explains, how I feel? Mama gets to feel something? There's a concept.

Alone, but not lonely, "one of the common threads is a deep longing for time alone, for a refuge that provides peace, quiet and freedom from distraction and demands - a wistful dream." And more importantly, "Our state of health and happiness depends more upon our perception of life events around us than upon the events themselves."

My life might seem like it sucks, but hey I like it.

A big, public thank you to my gardens and my plants. And to my family as well, for making me into who I am, now happy and satisfied, though still often frustrated and struggling with the complexities of everything.

Women my age, once motivated by the shocking freedom of the 60s, a real you hadda be there moment that is now unexplainable, after the June Cleaver years of the 50s, now there's some 45 million of us, unharnessable in our determination and drive, absolutely unwilling to be ignored, I'd told the Director yesterday that I was feeling very ready to take on the entire mental health for children inequities, irked and angry that sick children so often don't qualify for services, unable to access that which they deeply need.

This over-achieving physician, Dr. Northrup, had been told, "You're not vulnerable enough, so no one feels drawn to take care of you."

I, too, had once been told by a pastor/friend, "Well Cindy, you're always acting like you have it together. No one thinks you need any help." Or Yolie once remarking, "Do people think you have no feelings?" when folks with professionally manicured nails, and loads of empty free time, felt it was OK to gossip about me, or even to say it aloud to me or my family.

Dr. Northrup responded much as I would have if I'd been articulate enough at the time, "It hadn't felt safe to allow vulnerability, nor was that something I'd admired." It picks up the aspect of a lack of inner strength to a woman like me. But, in our culture, she stresses, which tends to identify with victims (the vulnerable ones) so much that it doubts the humanity of those who didn't assume that role.

Ouch.

She suggests now that maybe we should allow a crack in the armour, as a way to grow, to allow ourselves to feel more.

"The point is at midlife, more than at any other time, the aspects of your personality that kept you alive and functional for the first half of your life may actually put you at risk in the second half. All of us must find the courage to make the changes that will enable us to live our lives in an empowered fashion."

Hmmm, you talking to me?

Grist for my brain mill.

Yolie and Lauren are, and have been, reading the Twilight series, Yolie's stayed up late to finish the first book, "Mama, you'd absolutely hate it, it's not your type at all," knowing how little patience I have with the imaginary, with fiction, at this time in my life with all the demands upon me, so little free time left to research horticultural, nutritional or the spiritual aspects of my life that is only halfway over.

Northrup, of course, stressed the need for women to take care of themselves, to get the time alone that they desperately need and crave for rejuvenation, and I like to think that I've been better about that lately, now with way less children at home and no new adoptions.

I once thought to myself that I'd just keep on adopting, providing a home and family for children, until I croaked. Thankfully God stopped me from doing so, making it crystal clear to me several years ago that I'd done what I was called to do, that there were still many years ahead of me to work hard on finishing this calling. They kids aren't grown yet.

By 4:30 this morning, unable to sleep, thinking of my day ahead, I'd come downstairs to read some more while it was quiet and I could be alone, very refreshed and eager once again about life.

Three Hours and Papers

A three and a half hour mental health assessment on two children today sucked my entire morning, but this is a good thing. "Be there at 8:30 to do all the paperwork," I was told, and obedient fool that I am, had to stand and wait another ten minutes for the first employee to arrive, this after I stressed, "Y'all are open that early, right?"

Finishing up those reams of paperwork, I came home with yet another sheaf to fill out, jumping through hoops, but keeping Yolie's words in my mind as I emotionally ponder all the whys in my life.

"I think that in Javy's group, Javy and Chuy have seen your willingness to TRY with the other siblings, and that has been a determining factor in you earning their love and trust. This is true of most sibs, I think. My love for you began and has been cemented because of your love for Joe and Daniel. I can so vividly remember watching you care for them, seeing if you were worthy of THEM calling you Mom, and that being the determining factor in my heart for you. So, while it may not be the right answer for all adoptive parents to keep all sibs together (and believe me, I do see such instances where that is not in the best interest of everyone), I do think that Javy and Chuy have a shot at a normal (whatever THAT is)life, bonded and secure, because they have seen you fight for Pepe, Paloma and Jonathan. Also, instead of people (therapists, social workers, judges, adoptive parents) telling them it's not a good decision to keep them together, Javy and Chuy have been able to see with their own two eyes that the rest of their sib group is dangerous and unhealthy. This process has allowed them to come to terms with the fact that them being in residential treatment, away from the family, is the best option. YOU cannot be blamed for it, they have seen your tears and frustration over the situation and I believe they have come to a point where they are ready for some stability and peace in the home. So, maybe God's plan was that you get Pepe, Paloma and Jonathan into the proper treatment so that Javy and Chuy could blossom in our family."

You best believe that I desperately need that kind of reassurance, especially from someone like Yolie who is intelligent, educated and experienced from both sides of the fence, having been through birth family trauma, in foster care, adopted and also a social worker herself.

Pepe called last night, not mad at all, telling me that he knew he needed help. I told him we're planning on continuing to seek help, but at 14 1/2, he's getting awfully close to the age where he won't be a cute kid that folks want to help, he'll be out of the age reach of programs that he desperately needs now. I advised him to be honest in court tomorrow and that Martin and Chuy would be there as witness and victim.

"I don't want him to be mad at me, "Martin hollered, a little fear in his voice, "I have to go though."

Pepe heard him, "I'm good with it, tell Martin I'm not mad."

Today was another positive step in the right direction, I sat with the Director for awhile as she told me about budget cuts, but also of her hopefulness in this situation.

Sometimes I just feel like a poster child for embattled moms, adoptive families, beleaguered children who just can't help the way they act, and now maybe for strong, menopausal women who are jetting happily into the second half of their lives.

An Encouraging Study

"Even people with a gene that predisposes them to alcoholism or drug abuse are more likely to say "no" if they were raised by good parents, University of Georgia researchers have found."

Now that's some great news. I don't feel like researching this, but I'd read once that nearly all crimes get committed while the criminal is under the influence of drugs or alcohol. People in marginal situations tend to self-medicate, that is drink or do drugs, and even in today's crappy economic times, alcohol sales are strong.

I despise alcohol and what its effects have wrought upon folks, especially children.

"In families without much good parenting, kids with the negative gene were three times as likely to use alcohol or drugs than those who did not have the gene, the researchers found.

But children with the gene - who also had engaged, supportive parents - were no more likely than kids who didn't have the gene to drink or use drugs, the researchers found.

The researchers judged parenting based on factors such as how much time parents spent with children, communicating with them and helping them with homework."

Jeepers, that says it all I think. When the parents are absent or emotionally unavailable - why wouldn't someone then chose to drink? Yes, that's again my tendency to oversimplify, and maybe even over-generalize, but I also think it is the key.

I found all the words of this study to be remarkably comforting.

Although yesterday started off badly, it calmed down considerably.

My best friend, now a grandmother of several, came by with two of her daughters that are now grown, and it was so dadgum nice to see them and spend time with them as well. One of her sons, now seemingly doing very well in a residential psychiatric setting, gave me hope for my two difficult ones. Jonathan gravitated to him, stuck by his side, glad to see him home on a pass. A new grandbaby there in her life, chubby and cute beyond measure, charmed my socks off.

And maybe, just maybe, looking at the next generation of our families, after many disturbing and harrowing years involved in raising adopted older children, the payoff to our patience and parental dedication will be the knowledge that the next generation will be emotionally safe, productive and untraumatized.

Yes, my grown children still act out. They still spew out unexpected resentments and emotional attacks at times, they still make some crappy mistakes, and they also make me proud. Isn't that life? I often quiz deputies, professionals, and others about their experiences out in the field. The majority of arrests and encounters involve birth children, since that is the majority population, although my own little world is a different percentage. I want to know the WHYS of every situation, the often unknowable WHYS.

I'd likely not even mentioned lately that JoJo got put out of school for two weeks for a weapon. This right after I'd remarked on how well I thought he was doing, two steps forward and a big ker-thunk backward. A bladeless box cutter, still construed as a weapon. "Isn't two weeks kinda harsh?" he asked me.

"For me to have to deal with you? Yep, two weeks'll seem like an eternity." I promised, "Welcome to Big Mama Boot Camp."

Last night I was reading through Paloma's latest psych evaluation, her second in seven years, and as an adoptive parent I just can't stress its importance enough. Pyschological evaluations are more necessary than air. Yes, I'm extremely fortunate to have found folks who are highly gifted, brilliantly intelligent, and intuitive. They are able to zero in on issues, evaluate the data, perform the testing, and extrapolate results that are dead-on accurate to what I also see here. Teacher data is also an important input.

I believe I've been so blessed because I wouldn't stand for less I'm sure. I would have continued seeking professional help until I came upon the best, the most qualified, but even so I'm amazed at the brilliance that I've encountered, and at how much I have learned, and am still learning from every encounter with them all. Dr. Mandy is exemplary, I've greatly benefited from Dr. G and now Dr. C. I cannot imagine where my family would have been without professional help. We've needed it desperately and there's no shame in admitting how great has been our need.

I may be highly educated, but the challenges involved in raising a family like mine, have been off the charts. Judging from my emails and comments, your challenges have been equally as trying, shall we say, for lack of a qualitative descriptor. Sometimes there simply are no words, sometimes we just endure, sometimes we rejoice, the ups and downs jerking us around like whiplash, the highs and lows so unchartable.

What will each day bring? I make my plans, but then the world seems to have its way. I have a very busy week ahead with appointments and meetings, when I need to be planting, but feeling my oats once again, I have the energy and stamina to endure and maybe even to excel, I believe, still clinging to my 2009 is divine mantra.

This Ain't Right

Waving a knife threateningly, one in each hand, Jonathan went after an older boy with no provocation, knowing that'd force me to intervene, him cutting my hand in the process, blood trickling out, the entire kitchen went silent in shock, me most of all.

It's a tiny cut. A very small cut. Just enough to draw a thin line of blood.

A little cut.

Is that OK in anyone's world?

Maybe all of us very beleaguered families should get together and threaten to jump from a predetermined overpass in order to garner attention and the obvious need for long-term mental health facilities? Would that work? Or are their behaviors so contagious for me that I'd even consider that bizarre notion?

Family safety should be a priority.

ARGHHHHHHHHHHHH

Dr. Michael Galitzer suggests, "Get stress under control. Keep a journal, which is another form of meditation. Studies have shown that journal writing lowers cortisol by destressing your body."

That's why I blog.

"Mom, how do you stop yourself from slugging him?" Javy asked me in frustration.

"What good would hitting do?" I answered a question with a question. "When he wants us all to hate him due to his negative behaviors, why should we feed into it and give him that satisfaction? Wouldn't we then just be reinforcing those behaviors?"

Not that it is that simple. Behavior reinforcement, or modification, does not work on severely emotionally disturbed children. Nothing works. Nothing. Works. NOTHING.

He's angry because he doesn't have computer privileges because he refuses to attend school and he's only ten years old.

Therefore he can express his anger by controlling all of us who are all clean, dressed, and ready for church.

"I'm not going," he announced, and there's nothing we can do.

Javy, his oldest birth brother wants to beat him up, but I won't allow it.

I can't leave him home alone as yesterday he kept burning paper napkins on a stove burner. Yeah, there's a clue. Warning. Danger.

We are all held hostage to this. He has the power to control us. I could give in, give him computer privileges, but he still wouldn't go to church.

This is better for him in his twisted thinking.

I'm not mad, I'm frustrated, and I'm journaling. Javy is PISSED OFF, but I've sent him to another room to calm down. Their other birth brother, Chuy, is equally as livid. Church is a fun time for my children, they look forward to Sundays, as do I.

Jonathan is also refusing to take his meds.

No human should have to live like this, no family can remain normal with these types of behaviors. I get angry at a society that expects a normal old lady to manage crazy behaviors. It cannot be done.

We have an intake meeting on Tuesday, and I'm praying for some help and some relief.

Don't Care

Remember...my photos often have nothing to do with my posts...

All I did was pull off the scabs some of you have grown over the years from dealing with violently mentally ill children and, for that, I'm sorry. I was wanting to point out that article for what I thought was its understanding empathy for the plight we seem to be in at the moment. In reality, I grapple every day for help for several of my children and have no answers...like so many of you.

Worse case scenario, for many of us, is that we struggle for several more years until our children age out and hit the streets, no longer under our tenuous control, and they'll be in and out of other institutions that attempt to keep our society safe. Best case would be some help, but it seems unlikely, all too often, for so many of us.

Although yesterday was peaceful, my Bubbas now so large, strong and helpful that we got a great deal accomplished, it was mainly due to the fact that no one challenged Paloma about her behaviors. She didn't help, and she kept trying to provoke others, but somehow no one fell for it.

If a kid hauls me a wheelbarrow of wood chips, a five minute task, they then save me hours of weeding later on, a concept I've tried to teach them for years.

It was a day in which big sisters ruled. Tabby went with Monica and Kortney to sell Girl Scout Cookies, Miriam took JoJo, Allen and Mayra with her, and CW and Lily went to Cristy's house.

Paloma has been using her hair as a control issue, not brushing it for months, balling the tangle into a hideous, matted knot, looking very deranged, but late last night she buckled and worked on it, with Mayra's help and a large bottle of conditioner, until all the knots were gone. She is an undeniably pretty girl, but the beauty is too often masked by poor hygiene, a 'you can't make me bathe' moment.

Within a week of her Probation Rules laid out, she's violently assaulted someone, in this case Jonathan, and refused school one day, not complied with the house rules, not obeyed parental authority, and has informed me each time, "I don't care."

The same words Pepe used when I'd tried to keep him on track, out of a juvenile facility, pointing out the seriousness of each behavior infraction, explaining court terms to him, but until he pummeled Chuy, I'd not dwelt on each and every little thing. Like Jonathan he has a very flat affect, a coldness to his eyes, and a simmering anger within that can be frightening.

I can't just call DJJ and tattle for every violation, I'd be on the line 24-7 with kids that are so seriously disturbed. When something shattering happens, I must jump to tend to it, but walking this line takes all my energy and it's stressful beyond measure. Waiting for one of us to get hurt? Is that any kind of an existence?

I'd tried to explain to Jonathan that school was designed to teach some elementary concepts that would be needed in life, such as adding and subtracting or reading. Linear equations will likely be out of the running for him, but everyone must be able to add and subtract in order to even begin to manage their minimum wage paychecks. "How will you ever be able to buy a car without a job?" I'd asked him.

"I really don't care what happens to me," he intoned with cold, dead eyes and my heart just sank as I could see that he meant what he said. He really does not care, not anymore than his two other siblings, Pepe and Paloma. They just do not care. That part within them either never developed, is buried way too deep, or was severed in their earlier trauma, and it simply makes me so sad for them.

On the spectrum, in comparison, I am a driven, determined, motivated, excited grade-grubbing, goal-setting, jump out of bed, raring to go each morning, annoying human being, and at the very other deep end I have apathetic, dulled, angry at the world children who are so unfairly saddled with obvious and severe mental illnesses. There seems to be no middle ground where I could potentially help them manage their emotions.

There is nothing that motivates them. I'm the one who tends to the Yorkies, although Paloma cuddles with them a great deal. The kids don't care enough to make sure the dog bowls are filled, this isn't their motivation, nothing is overall.

Paloma will spend hours grooming the dogs, in stark contrast to her ownself. The dogs are drawn to her, unlike the other kids, and her unwavering ability to give such attention to them does give me a gimmer of hope for her.

Plans and Planting

Got Arapaho blackberries, plum, peach, and Paw Paw trees planted, two new long beds dug for new asparagus areas, mowed a huge overgrown area, mulched it all, but didn't get either the asparagus, raspberry or 100 more strawberry plants in the ground yet.

A chance of rain that could turn to snow in the north Georgia mountains tonight with no accumulation expected.

The kids have behaved so far, no real problems, little skirmishes, but no more. Even Paloma is fairly mellow.

Hunger drove me indoors, but refreshed now, I'm running back out to plant more radishes and another variety of leaf lettuce, while trying to figure out a way to get to Foley Field Tuesday afternoon with Daniel to watch Daniel's friend, Mitchell pitch against UGA for Presbyterian College in SC.

It's a long shot, but I'm going to try my best to get there.

Read It And Weep

If you have a child needing mental health services, this article will send you over the edge.

Saving The Planet

Cindy Adams remarked the other day, "I totally understand what they're saying, but reality dictates that the masses are not or cannot switch their lifestyles as drastically as would have to happen to fix this." I'd linked the hamburger/hummer connection and had literally thought about it all that day. Looking at my 55th birthday coming up this summer, reading a good deal about longevity issues, it just seems so easy for me to be a vegetarian.

But maybe that's simplistic of me.

I'd chosen this lifestyle in my late teens, but found that not eating meat was no challenge at all for me, as I'd never liked it anyway. I'd devoured some pretty radical literature in the 60s, plus that old standby The Jungle by Upton Sinclair and felt strongly in my own Back to the Land Movement, that there was no other way for me.

My kids eat what I serve because I do cook supper each night and after 40 years of studying nutrition, I do have a clue. Edgar told me recently that meat didn't agree with him, he felt better when he didn't eat it, this after porking out on it while living on his own.

I'm interested in longevity, always have been, but now even more so since in the second half of my life I'm hoping to reap the rewards following my diligence of the last couple of decades. I want to be healthy and fun with my grandbabies, unencumbered someday by the brutal demands here at home. I wanna be free.

An anonymous commenter wrote a scathingly realistic reason why I have to not leave kids like Paloma home alone. I've had similar experiences, milder maybe, where a phone answerer tells Yolie in bewilderment, "I have NO idea where Mama is," as I'd just stepped into the next room to water plants.

I've read recently, in several published research papers, that we might likely carry cancer within us all too often, our cells may or may not be able to handle this, mutation may occur, or our immune system may succeed against it. I'm paraphrasing, like the layman I am, but the thought that seeped into my brain was linked to the vital importance of good nutrition. Our bodies are like Ferraris and we need to use high octane gas, so to speak. Be mindful of everything we consume.

My uber-to-the nth-degree accountability partner, Sarah, and I obsess over everything we eat, purchase, dispose of, or even consider having in our lives. It's fun for us to be so mindful, honestly. It's how our minds tick. We call each other up over studies we've read, research we've uncovered, or new ideas. I gave her a vegetarian choice as a child since she'd go to her dad's house to eat. Basking in her heady pre-school freedom of choice, she wisely chose to be a veggie decades before it was cool, risking ridicule in elementary school, dragging her cheese and sprouts whole wheat sandwich to school, hearing "Gross, Sarah, why are you eating grass?"

But she too has massive energy spilling out of her, a driving ambition to change things, and to raise her own children nutritionally sound, even way more so than I've done...what with me getting sidetracked by the critical demands of each situation that springs up here daily. I think I paid for it also, surgery was required on me two years ago. I blame severe stress and me faltering in my own ability to take care of myself at all during those very tough years. I learned my lesson though.

I've taken vitamins and supplements for 30 something years now, don't tell me it hasn't paid off within my strength and energy output, I've not eaten meat, but rather consumed tons of nutritionally dense and delicious real food, minus the necessary Kripsy Kreme moments, as I'm not a purist. I, too, hate swallowing the pills, nearly gag while doing it, but know it is vitally necessary and beneficial. And I want to impart this to my children, raise them differently than America's dependency on fast food.

I know Cindy Adams is correct. I know that the masses won't change, I'm only responsible for my own family, to teach them the most healthy ways to live, and maybe, just maybe, influence anyone else to want to change their ways to help themselves and to better our planet.

This is all we have.

The Tide Turned

Knowing how upset I was, Daniel called and offered to bring me some lunch, and Yolie, Sarah and Monica all offered to babysit Paloma.

A reader, Daisy, asked in a comment that I accidentally deleted, "Why don't you just leave her home alone?"

I can't. A normal 12 year old maybe, but not one with such severe issues. Monica ended up babysitting. Paloma initially balked, but something told me to ignore her and just go get dressed as if I were going, which I did.

I pointed out that even though she felt the need to beat the tar out of her sibling, I'd give the world to be able to squabble with my only sister. Betsy had once even offered 'arguing services' for me, I could call her up and argue since I'd never get a chance to argue with Ellen again.

"OK, I'll go to Monica's house," Paloma magnanimously relented.

I flew to town, shocked at my good fortune, calling Daniel to meet me there. I even beat Betsy to the meet, and the web site was incorrect, it wasn't SEC but CCSA and this was Betsy's son, Scott's, final meet of his senior year in college. Scott is Ellen's Godson and had once played checkers with Daniel at our old beach house when they were in elementary school.

I knew I'd cry, but I reined it in a great deal, so dadgum happy to be with her, amazed at her son's phenomenal swimming speed, soaking up such a different atmosphere, off my dirt road, in town with normal folks, learning the techniques and swimming meet explanations from Betsy. Oh my goodness, this was so much fun.

Daniel took me out to a Cuban restaurant to top off my big adventure and then we met up later at Yolie's house. By that time Paloma had caught a field mice with her bare hands, something she does with great regularity, but this time it had bitten her.

Thankfully it didn't break the skin, and Lord knows I probably need to worry about the mouse and the venom it may have absorbed, but Paloma came running up the hill happily to Yolie's house to show off her battle scars.

Betsy

I am supposed to be leaving for the SEC Swim Meet at UGA, wishing to have just an hour or so to myself, sitting there with my sister's friend, Betsy, who I have not seen in more than ten years as she lives up near DC. I did not brag about my plans here at home, didn't even mention it, knowing that'd give Paloma and Jonathan ammo to use against me, another way to control me, as that is one of their agendas.

Jonathan went to school, only because I said I would not go get groceries for the weekend if I had to drag him along.

Paloma got up, got inappropriately dressed, and then refused to get out of the van when we arrived at school. What am I gonna do? Push her out? Allow her to rage? Knowing the administrators would have to call me, knowing she'd get wound up so much in her own cauldron of unfathomable anger that there'd be Hell to pay for me, I tried waiting her out, but to no avail. She wins again.

She'll always win these battles, as she is irrational, and I am not. She holds all the tools. I have to give in or there'll be a scene involving police and unmitigated humiliation for me. She'll scream false accusations and blame everyone for everything on earth.

This is why I've done nothing in the adoption world for more than a year. I don't want to subject others to this Hell, I really don't. The vast majority of older children have Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Conduct Disorders, and other forms of severe emotional issues, nearly all have PTSD and it's no wonder, considering what they've been through. Now I have it in spades.

Now my day will suck, my own resentment will curdle bitterly within me, and I'll release it with hard work, use a putty knife and scrape the rest of the living room ceiling that's falling down in chunks...this is not due to my kids, but rather to the age of the house. I'll get the potatoes planted hopefully and I'll drag seed flats out into the cold sunshine. I'll run up and down the stairs until my own simmering frustration subsides.

But I won't take her to the grocery store, we'll make do with what I have on hand and maybe, just maybe, when her night meds kick in tonight I can get to town and see Betsy? Maybe? She flies back to DC this weekend, blowing any opportunities I'll have to see her until the kids are grown.

Another Assault

Cristy, Sarah and I were getting a quiet moment in the family room watching out the windows at the youngest kids and grandkids playing in 1000 pounds of new sand that didn't hardly make a dent in our large sandbox, only to head blood-curdling screams from another room as Paloma and Jonathan got into a shockingly vicious catfight, pulling hair, slugging, slapping, yelling, cussing, undercuts and close fisted, pounding blows. I couldn't even pull them apart. Like two snarling dogs, their fury was frightening.

Hanging on to Jonathan's arm, getting slung every whichaway, I hollered at them both to stop, but in their joint blind rage, they neither heard nor obeyed. Javy wasn't home, Cristy came running, but I waved her away as Paloma vents against her too often.

"Mom, they're crazy," Cristy stressed, as if I didn't already know that. We were sure getting our money's worth out of Cristy's Psychology Degree. Heck she'd spent the morning taking the GRE for a graduate degree.

Finally I'd yanked Jonathan hard enough to get him away, pretty sure he'd get the short end of Paloma's proverbial stick, his shirt sleeve on a nice collared shirt was ripped off, his face scratched and bleeding. Paloma looked pretty rough too.

I, for once, was uninjured. It flared up twice more, but sputtered out after less than 30 seconds of more fighting. This is ridiculous. I think Paloma started it, but I'm not certain.

"That's assault," I told her for the hundredth time.

"I don't care," she roared back.

The sad thing is that she truly doesn't care.

Is Need The Word?

We'd had a presciption mixup, Paloma'd been prescribed several bottles of a higher dose of risperadol. I'd not noticed this in Kroger, putting it on a high shelf at home and later returning for the correct dosage. This pharmacist had gone to high school with Sarah and is super nice. Realizing I'd taken home three of the wrong dose, I carried them all back wanting to return them, as if that was an acceptable pharmaceutical practice.

Holding myself accountable, maybe even more so than most folks as my children watch me like hawks, but I'm so much more the way I am due to my extreme reliance on God, I didn't want anyone to think I was squirreling away the trucker speed pills. Like I need a chemical boost? I don't think so.

The pharmacist suppressed his grin, "No we can't take them back," stopping short of explaining drug scares and overdoses to me, "Just throw it away at home."

"Nope, please dispose of this for me," I'd insisted.

He did.

My phone battery died, the T1 line at the Verizon store was cut, they couldn't help me, no computer, no sales.

"I've got to have a phone," I nearly shrieked.

"Do you have $32.09 in cash?" he asked me.

If I had the ability to carry cash, I'd also have the freedom to go phoneless, trying to politely figure a way to explain my psycho-child situation, knowing it wouldn't come out correctly, certainly it would seem insensitive. I stood there going through different options in my mind.

I must have looked pathetic.

The manager caved, "OK, I suppose I can just put it on your bill."

Well, duh.

He did so and three messages immediately came through, two from two schools, one from a doctor, and DJJ called at that moment, changing tomorrow's court day until next week.

"Guess you really did need it," he grudgingly acknowledged.

Is need the word?

I really needed to use Daniel's old line on my new batteried-up phone, get me the free upgrade on my mama line, but their computers were still down.

"Why don't you go shopping and check back," the friendly manager tried to suggest.

Do I look like I shop? I wanted to scream that I had about 12 seconds left in town before I self-detonated.

"No thank you," I squeaked resignedly, Jonathan by my side looking as if he'd escaped from The Snake Pit. The school immediately called me about Paloma barfing on purpose.....

Gotta go.

Honey, Me Too

"Mama," Tabby intoned, looking out the window, "The police are here."

My heart slams to a stop, my mind searching possibilities, wondering the whereabouts of my 23 children who do not live here. We were under a tornado watch, bad weather looming, has there been an accident?

It felt like a 23 mile walk from the kitchen out the back door, I couldn't get any air into my lungs.

A new deputy, one I'd met last week regarding Pepe's attack on Chuy, he was smiling at me, how wrong could this be? It flitted through my mind that I was glad he knew where we live.

"Just got some papers for you," he said, seeing my very pale face, and scared, wide eyes.

"I hope you know CPR," I responded, sagging onto his patrol car in relief, knowing my heart would pound for another hour until I could calm down. This is what PTSD is, my automatic response is paralyzing fear, blind trepidation and body-damaging alarm, all systems in my body poised to react. This sucks.

We have to go to court in the morning about Pepe. The D.A. had already called me, told me to bring the victim and the witness, which is Martin. Martin is older than Pepe, but Martin has a very gentle demeanor and has never been in any kind of fight that I can remember in my home, rarely argues or gets into trouble...get this...doesn't steal, Praise God. He hugs me everyday, is best friends with CW, an ideal son.

Martin was frightened by Pepe's immediate anger and his blind fury against his own birth brother. Honey, me too.

The school social worker, Mr. Brian, had told me that he'd majored in psychology because he wanted to know why folks act as they do. Honey, me too. I truly want to understand behavioral motivation.

I'm stymied here, in my home, by the utter lack of logic and some children's total inabilities to connect any dots. The spasms of rage always shock me as does blatant disobedience. Jonathan isn't allowed to do certain things, losses of privileges due to the fact that he won't attend school and even a young, strong, burly coach couldn't drag him in and make him sit there.

Nor can I. If Jonathan disobeys me, which is a constant, I have no recourse. I cannot force him to do anything, nor could any large man. It can't be done. This is what mental illness looks like. On the news, after any court verdict, one often hears, "This is a very sick individual," as society grapples with the WHYS of a case.

Well, they don't just spring up sick one day, it builds from inner demons or whatever one would call it. Mis-wiring? Non-functioning synapses?

Whatever.

It is an impossible situation in a home.

Jonathan got up, got dressed, ate breakfast, then refused to go. Paloma got up, put on dirty clothes that I told her to go change...which she refused to do, wouldn't brush her hair, but she went to school.

Go figure.

Last week, on a rare day that Jonathan went to school, I cleaned out his bedroom, top to bottom, hauling out garbage sacks of trash, washing piles of stuffed everywhere dirty clothes only to watch him re-trash the room with his hard, flat eyes glaring at me to challenge him. A big F#$k YOU moment that I constantly experience.

I don't retaliate, nor even show anger. It wouldn't matter to him, other than to charge him up, make matters worse.

He broke a window pane in JoJo's room because I wouldn't let him play Nintendo. He steals jars of peanut butter and stashes them around the house, food I'd let him eat anyway, but that's not the point for him. I should be praying that the salmonella bug is safe from his inner poisons that he emits daily, sarcasm is my crutch.

Yes, Virginia, there are some un-parentable children. We have an intake appointment next week that I'm praying will afford us some relief.

However the good news is that I'm very strong emotionally through all this, knowing there's some relief in sight, working on physically bringing myself back into the land of the living, pumping up my own once terribly deflated emotions, and dancing with joy that we likely got close to an inch of rain yesterday amidst the tornado warnings, watches, and huge storms that blew across Georgia through the night.

And Ken Griffey, Jr? What's his problem? "I'm going to Atlanta," he promised, only to back down and stay in Seattle. Thanks, bud, I was depending on him for some baseball relief.

Different

JoJo's been wonderful for three straight days, he's hardly said a cross word to his bonded like super glue brother, Allen. Dare I hope? Allen went through a rough teenage boy hormonal spell, but settled down within months, could JoJo possibly do the same?

Tony's stepping up to the plate in a negative manner. I need to turn him around, if possible, as he has the genetic imprint of an older brother, and I see the same alarmingly disruptive behaviors where they seemingly thrive on negative attention getting behaviors, being totally clueless that they will not win friends nor influence folks this way at all. Tony, however, can turn on a dime, and be the sweetest child ever.

Martin, a brother between the two (Tony and Joey) is clearly different than both. As my children grow and mature, paternity becomes evident and different. Fathered by different men, the mom's imprint is clear, behaviors can be similar, yet the experiences of children before foster care and before adoption shaped them in so many ways.

CW, Tony and Allen all stayed after school for tutoring, Sabrina and Chuy for soccer practice, Yolie here in time to babysit so I could run to our very conveniently located middle school and pick them all up. I'd already cooked supper, done the laundry, cleaned the house and hauled off the trash, feeling my oats once again, high on life, and glad to be smiling and happy at my lot in life.

The logistics, the challenges of raising so many children with all the physical work involved is usually something that I thrive off of, but last year with all the blows I'd absorbed, I was down for the count there for awhile. It feels so good to feel healthy again.

I have seed flats everywhere, dragging them in and out of the unheated greenhouse, chasing the sun to the back deck, and protecting them from the elements when necessary. I fell asleep last night, calculating dumb stuff in my head, wondering how many quarts of this and that are necessary for our family, thinking through the upcoming soccer season, and giggling at the obsessive number of times yesterday I'd checked the AJC web page, hoping for a confirmation from Ken Griffey, Jr. The Braves need the excitement that he'll provide this season.

I long for the days that'll someday stretch out before me, full of the promise of gardening and listening to baseball games, sweating in the sun, and having fresh produce constantly. No part of me envies folks their ability to go out to eat in restaurants whenever they want to do so. Suspicious of the way food is handled, purchased or grown, positive that olive oil is not used, food as an environmental nightmare such as the hamburger/hummer analogy, I'd just as soon be as responsible as I can for what I eat.

I'm counting my blessings, grateful that I live where I do, with the capacity to grow a ton of food, knowing that I alone can eat that much, heck plant eaters have big appetites, glad that Yolie's down the hill and Sarah's across the way, close by. We'll get rain today on my snow peas, radishes and lettuce that I've planted and I'm gonna run boring errands that I can't postpone any longer.

Where's My Head?

JoJo and Allen have significant behavior issues. They are riddled through and through with anger, violent tendencies and severely oppositional behavior. But they are both loving and attached, affectionate and emotionally demanding, they are not, in the least, mentally ill. Their entire sib group of seven brothers and sisters has been astoundingly difficult to raise, as they constantly and predictably sabotage all their own successes, yet they are not emotionally disturbed at all, and for that, I'm extremely thankful.

The huge majority of my children have diagnosed emotional or behavioral labels, but they are still strong on the side of mentally able.

Those that are not, those that leak out their bipolar darkness, or their schizophrenic inability to function, their severely anti-social tendencies, and the complete, stark lack of empathy displayed constantly can be frightening to behold.

It is articles like this that send chills up my spine, while also causing anger to well up in me, as even those who should understand either have their hands tied by bureaucratic mishaps, or they are strikingly unable to not blame a parent for a child's crazy behaviors.

Would the administrator of a group home be blamed for a fire-setter who resides there?

I've fought the 'group home label' or the 'they're not your real kids' slur for a long time, but maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should just give in to the perception that I'm just here to boss folks around.

Maybe I'll continue to pour myself into my children who want me to be there for them, even those who push me away in their transparent testing behaviors, but I'll hold myself at arm's length from those that need such specialized care...it may be in their best interest for me to do so.

Jonathan again flat refused to go to school, Paloma refused to get up until I was hollering, "Time to go," and she pulled on dirty clothes and wouldn't brush her hair. Her new favorite offensive behavior, besides the obvious dishevelment, is to wear boots with no socks, resulting in a stench like no other.

Make me, she silently glares while ignoring all my requests. Everything is a battle, from how many spaghetti noodles I serve each child to how many inches of space she thinks they should use while sitting and watching TV in the evening.

Able to rage through lithium, through psychotropic drugs that would knock out an elephant for a month, there's no managing her behavior anymore, I merely strive to keep everyone else safe.

Knowing they've been approved for RBWO, (Room, Board, Watchful Oversight) does allow me to get up each morning with hopes that the time will soon come when I'm not being forced to manage absolutely unmanageable behaviors. It just can't be done properly without a staff and 24-7 psychiatric intervention.

The other children resent me having to give in to her, yet they all truly understand that the alternative is obviously too dangerous.

A comment the other day, how when her bio brother was hospitalized, she found herself suddenly surprised at normal, has reverberated in my skull. Living on the knife edge of danger, the constant vigilance required of me has sapped me totally, leaving me unable to remember to smile at others when I'm out in public.

I'm afraid years from now, Chuck'll turn to his wife Yolie, "There goes your mama wandering down the road, go check and see if she put on her shoes," as I'll be so totally addled by then. I can hear Yolie, "It's not her shoes I'm worried about."

Likely though I won't go very far from my gardens.

Hyacinths

After we somehow navigated around the hurdle of Paloma wanting to control the pile of potential wood for the wood swings they were building, after Chuy decided there'd be a family swing and a Paloma swing, the fight that might have been brewing simmered down, but it required me to weed the front garden, rather than the greenhouse garden, so I could instantaneously referee if needed.

Two out of three of this sib group pictured here, actually 3 out of 5 of the entire group is significantly troubled.

I'd had to take the nicotiana seedlings out of the unheated greenhouse for the night, which may or may not have been necessary. I'd left several trays of Sweet William to fend for themselves, because they can survive low temperatures, but I wasn't sure of the others.

Picking my first pink hyacinth of the season, my mood buoyed by the imminent promise of spring, and the daylilies have poked their heads up out of the nutrient rich soil, ready to start their seasonal work, reminding me that I have ten tons of plants that need dividing, and given to Yolie, Sarah and Cristy to join their gardens from the old home place. Yes, Sarah, some of these are the same plants I've dug up and drug around since our very old Barnett Shoals place, the irises are from Grandma's last home in Virginia where she'd lived for 30 years or so.

Yeah, Grandma the gadabout, who plays in Bridge Clubs, take lessons, dance classes and socializes with her church, and seriously gardens, giving me hope for my older years, as her energy has barely slowed ever, now nearly 80, and she looks good too. Watch out world...

This is the kids last day home for a four day weekend, it's been fairly peaceful as we step around Paloma's various land mines, pacifying and appeasing, as we are left without any hopes of reasoning with her, forget teaching her to understand another's point of view. This is part of the problem and seven years of attempts, redirection, modification, therapy and resources...and we've gotten nowhere, losing ground even.

Dr. Mandy's coming today, working on psych evals, and I have a ton of chores to jump into this morning while it's too cold to go work outside yet.

That's My Job

Yesterday's news positively linked olive oil with the fight against breast cancer, something I can hardly bear to read about, here 13 years after losing my sister to the disease before she ever reached her 39th birthday.

One of her very best college friends, now with a son in college, is coming to a swim meet at UGA and I'll get to visit with her this upcoming week. I haven't seen her in ten years or so, I distinctly remember the last time, at the beach house in Nags Head, NC, and she made me miss my sister, Ellen, but in such a positive manner. I can't wait to see Betsy this week. The husband of another friend of Ellen, Tom, is in ICU battling for recovery, needing prayer.

Thank God I can pray at home as well as I can pray in church. Paloma was up at the crack of dawn, teetering on the edge of her dark mood, with that look in her eyes that often prevents normal family functioning. Managing her behaviors, making sure she does not lash out at younger kids, fills my days all too much. Yesterday her unreasonable demands including an area out back where the kids dig, that they not put a speck of sand where she was sitting. Honey, this is their area, not a 12 year old's supercilious domain.

Jack, Mauri, Tommy, CJ, Alyssa and Mae were all giving her a wide berth as they played, but not quite as wide as my older children do. Like having a cobra coiled in the corner, one keeps a wary eye peeled.

Lily and Mayra came upstairs at midnight to announce that Lily was barfing and needed to be closer to a bathroom. Grandpa, Tony and Jack, an odd threesome, had worked with a plumber's snake, fishing out debris, and making my detonating toilet as good as new once again.

My energy level skyrocketing again, thankfully, and as I barrelled down the hall I slipped on a wire coat hanger sending me sailing into the wall with a thump, twisting a toe and my pinky finger, feeling it today certainly. Several kids ran down the hall after me yesterday, no doubt worrying that The Cook would be injured and out of commission.

I just keep crowing about how good I feel, surprised to have myself back up to par, even in spite of Paloma's rages, dark moods, bizarre behavior and unpredictability. She just can't help it, driven by unseen inner demons and it so behooves me to help her find the help and the resources that she needs. Yolie's comment from the other day, rattling around in my mind as Javy and Chuy do look to me to fix things. That's my job.

I restrained myself from calling Daniel up all excited yesterday, giving him and his girlfriend a peaceful Valentine's Day, without Big Mama's big mouth, but hey now it's another day and the Atlanta Braves might get it together enough to get Ken Griffey, Jr. which might begin to make up for my deep dismay at losing John Smoltz. Baseball season, my favorite, kicking in now, but I've been too irked at the Braves General Manager to get very excited.

I Smell Spring Coming

A toilet explosion at 10:30 last night, Martin ran upstairs when he heard me shouting in alarm, "Git the plunger! Bring me a mop!" while I immediately blamed JoJo for the catastrophe while he subsequently denied any involvement. He's usually the culprit in bathroom messes. I'd cleaned it up, over an inch of water in my bathroom, dripping through to the downstairs hall.

"Happy Valentine's day Tomorrow," JoJo offered hopefully, searching for some way, any way to put a smile on mama's face who certainly didn't look pleased at the debacle before her.

"All things considered son," I mopped furiously, "I'd rather have chocolates," while I glared at the large floating turds threatening to overflow. I'm not very sentimental. My menacing glare scared the turds.

My bare feet were cold, I was a tad ill-tempered, and finally after it was clean, but so not usable, and I was thinking of the hike to the guest bathroom I'd need to make in the middle of the night, I drifted off to sleep dreaming of the various types of leaf lettuces, radishes and mesclan I'd planted yesterday, coaxed by the gentle rain I could hear falling through the open window by my bed.

The drip drip of rain seeped through my consciousness, waking me in sudden alarm as I realized that somehow the toilet had exploded again in the early hours of this morning.

Y'all I have a big mouth and I can holler loud enough to wake the dead, yet not one kid woke up, sleeping like logs while my big feet thundered up and down the hardwood hall, I'm not quiet at all, yet their sleep remain undisturbed.

Jeepers.

Martin had written a valentine to me about how I never give up, never quit, tucking it next to my computer, knowing I'd see it in the morning. "Are you gonna blog that?" he'd asked hopefully, when my eyes lit up and I smiled at the very positive message from him.

"Yeah, is that OK?"

"Uh-huh,"... moment over.

Our spring interlude, upper 60s, has given way to a predicted week of upper 50s, that's fine with me as I have heavy duty work still to do outside which'll keep me warm.

The Divine Miss M, our DJJ officer, now practically on a family retainer basis as so many lawbreakers wanna live with me, visited yesterday since the kids had no school. Paloma, initially friendly, shut down with a bang as Kim listed the terribly unreasonable expectations of behavior, "You'll comply with prescribed meds, attend school, mind the rules of the household," she continued while I could see Paloma's rage bubble to the surface.

"There'll be Hell to pay if we push her," I quietly told Miss Kim, fearing an explosion later, which fortunately did not come. Paloma stormed down the hall after the meeting, hitting the walls with her fists and slamming her door, but I left her alone and she returned to my side within an hour, maintaining control, only to later melt down over tacos versus tostados, wanting her way at all times, oppositional against my plans as usual. Predictable even, almost to a cartoon version nowadays.

I'd pacified her by making an appointment with the vet for this morning, yes a Saturday morning in which I'd asked on the phone, "Does it cost more on Saturdays?" only to get laughed at, as if I were some country bumpkin coming to town on Saturday...which I am, duh.

Princess, one of the cutest Yorkies on earth, Paloma's favorite, is not responding to fish oil supplements as much as I'd hoped, such dry skin, and no I'm not babying a dog, just concerned, and likely she needs vaccinations.

I'd warned Paloma 100 times yesterday, "Heck no, you're not going with me if you don't behave today," and somehow with warm weather buffeting her apparently exposed nerve cells, she somehow maintained for most of the day.

I'd run the attic fan all day yesterday, drawing out winter air, too much exhaled oppositional defiant carbon dioxide, wanting to capture the fragrance of a coming Georgia spring as the weeping willow leaves have formed, most varieties of daffodils are blooming, forsythia exploding in gorgeous contrast to the toilet, and birds were chirping.

Hazel waddled in my garden, tossed aside a worm I'd handed to her, then sat on it. Oooph.

Travis and Kimberly came by when Sarah and I had plopped on the back deck. One of 16 children his ownself, he'd described how easy it used to be to get help for unruly children. His dad could just drive a kid to YDC in Augusta, no paperwork, just descriptions of the uncontrollable behaviors which is in very sharp contrast nowadays to the point of us having to be injured first before anything could get done.

Chuy was somehow not badly bruised from his attack by Pepe, his dark skin darkening along the jawline where he'd been hit the hardest, and he was in pain for a few days in his ribs. "Tough it out," I'd suggested as it really was his only option, one he usually chooses anyway. He's such a great 13 year old kid, a little sassy and rude at school, a self-defense mechanism, yet at home he's exuberant and rambunctious, as a middle school boy ought to be, easy to parent, although still standoffish to some extent even after nearly seven years of living here with me.

I Just Don't Know....

So much scrambling around in my head, so many thoughts, way more unanswered questions, and so little free time in which to sit and write, but Yondalla asked, "I know you are very passionate about keeping siblings together, and I am wondering if you have thoughts about what should be done regarding not-yet-adopted sibling groups in which one child is deeply disturbed. Would you now recommend separation? "

I, of course, have no easy answers. Being able to see both sides of a situation, even being so black and white in my thoughts, little room for grey areas, as I believe so deeply in right or wrong, I don't exactly have a good answer as every situation has so many facets to it.

Yes, I've changed greatly over the years, less dead-set on some preconceived notions, and now comprehending so much more in regards to unhealthy sibling dynamics, it is necessary at times to do the unthinkable, which would be to split some siblings away from each other, yet that should be tempered by reasonable, even demanding expectations of still keeping them emotionally together in some sense.

We'd once had to send a sibling back to Texas, within the first month of a placement, to a camp for sexual perpetrators when another child in that group had confided in me. That kid never lived with us again, but stayed in touch and visited twice. He's still in touch and is now in his 20s.

Another sibling had returned to Texas, before finalization, in order to receive five years of residency in a state mental hospital, and his sister now is living in a therapeutic respite placement an hour from here.

My Pepe is locked up away from his siblings, due to a savage pummeling administered to a younger sib, and two more siblings of that same group are looking at residential settings.

Even though Pepe cannot safely live here, he is still as bonded, as is possible, to his sibs and they to him. He is simply so emotionally damaged that he cannot contain his violence. His younger siblings seem equally as bipolar. Lisa's comment yesterday nearly described Paloma's behaviors to a T. As if their imaginary sixth sibling resided with her? Even Yolie'd remarked about it to me yesterday.

But...and this thought stabs me in my gut...what if Yolie's caseworker had winnowed the older, angry sister away from her two adorable brothers back then, figuring she could easier find a family for a 5 and a 7 year old if the pissed-off, parentified 11year old was out of the picture?

It had been discussed, Yolie was in therapy to prepare her for the possibility of this potentially devastating event that still makes me shudder nearly 20 years later.

I doubledawg guarantee, if that had happened, Daniel and Joe would not have survived to become the men they are now, nor would Yolie be the strong, educated woman that she is now. They'd have combusted without each other, dissolving internally, becoming vapors, shells of who they should have been. Back then they were a fairly typical sib group available for adoption with Joe's documented orneriness and Yolie's very justified anger. Daniel was young and cute, but very guarded and stand-offish. He makes you work hard for his trust but then, after it has been earned, it is un-dying.

But that's not what Yondalla is asking, she's referring to obviously damaged children, with dangerous and significant diagnoses, and I have come to a point where in a perfect world regarding adoption, the sibs would still be kept together and given the help they need...but in our reality world what happens too often is one very disturbed child too often destroys the placement for everyone.

Truly though, in a better world, there'd have been more services for the birth parent, more resources needed to keep an original family together. That said, after years of living with older children who eventually confide everything to me, I know there are too many instances where a full time Nanny, professor and psychologist on the premises wouldn't have been able to stop the partying, a polite euphemism, that prevented parenting.

I mentioned to Yolie yesterday that it was remarkable to think, even in her anger at what had happened to them, she never, ever fought with her brothers, never spoke an ill tempered word to Daniel, never really at Joe either. He came visibly unglued at the mere thought she'd be angry at him. He hollered one time, with sadness so deep, "She's mad at me," when she was crying over his law-breaking ways.

They were definitely a stand-out set of siblings, now still very bonded and supportive of each other, while I have other grown sibs barely speaking to each other.

Even then, as a high school student and later through her college years, she never missed Daniel's baseball and football games. She, Chuck and I, a Mod Squad threesome, sitting in a row, always cheering him on, although later I was taking toddlers and babies with us, now those same little ones, CW, Lily and Jack, are modeling great behavior to her children.

It had been suggested, seven years ago, that maybe Pepe should not be adopted with his siblings. I, of course, passionate and hard-headed, still optimistic and hopeful, argued against splitting them up. Do I regret my blind determination?

Maybe. Maybe not, the story isn't over yet but, yeah sure at times, I've deeply regretted my own stubbornness that has resulted in injuries to me and to others. But I don't know what would have happened if I'd left him there. Maybe Chuy and Javy would have resented the separation so deeply that they also wouldn't have succeeded?

I just don't know....

I'm Sorry Memaw and Mayra

My gorgeous Memaw, who has also gotten into some scrapes lately and is paying the price, learning from her consequences because she's a resilient, smart girl, had her birthday lunch ruined by Paloma's rage yesterday. Standing there with tears running down her cheeks, I so felt her pain, but was so terribly helpless to change the situation as Paloma's very bizarre behaviors are steering our currents at the moment.

She's been approved for residential help, but it takes time to put it into action. My mother was shocked to witness the Hell we go through on an hourly basis. This morning Mayra took the brunt of it, this is patently unfair, and I'd be a banner waving proponent of older child adoption if we could get help for the children who so desperately need it.

Paloma too is a gorgeous little girl, but so severely disturbed that it is visible. Refusing to bathe or brush her hair, wearing the same dirty clothes when she owns 100 other shirts and pants, it is a control battle for her that she is determined to win. If I push it, she rages, and we all pay. We are now her puppets ruled by her irrationality.

Refusing again today to go to school, dressed and ready but melting down at the last minute when I quietly suggested she brush her hair, she slammed herself to the floor in anger. Her younger equally emotionally enmeshed brother, climbed up on the roof yesterday in a vain incomprehensible attempt to remove shingles before a rain storm, glaring at me, mocking me and refusing to come down.

This is what I live with every day..

I dread every phone call, afraid that I'll be forced to accept Pepe back into our home, when it has been glaringly obvious that someone gets injured each time. Why are we expected to live like that?

Jonathan will NOT clean his room, nor take his dirty clothes to the laundry room, nor remove trash. Rather, in his deep mental severity, he literally makes rat's nests of everything, maybe as a source of emotional comfort, I don't know. I just removed three 39 gallon bags of trash from his room and four loads of laundry, made the beds and swept the floors, knowing it is all in vain as when he returns home he'll just trash it, because he can.

Walls are scribbled upon, fists have punched through the sheet rock, and there are kick holes also. The brand new window that I'd had installed a year or so ago has soap and shaving cream smeared upon it and the replacement screen torn to shreds. The heater vent cover is gone, and trash and popcorn is stuffed within, this is a fairly common occurrence.

Across the hall, Allen and JoJo, slobs as well, but they will give it a weekly clean up, and they do not hoard stuff they can't ever use for any reason unlike those that are more seriously messed up - and it is not their faults that they are this way. I get that, and I try to love them in spite of their own sad self-hatred and self-sabotage.

Angry at our bizarre morning, I chose to not blog early but to accomplish some hard work, knowing it brings me emotional relief. A workhorse is self-rewarded and I need to experience that fairly often.

I don't wanna just fuss, only to expel my inner stress so that I can continue forward with my day, knowing I have a ton to accomplish and glad that I do.

I am happy at the thought of some eventual relief in sight and when they get accepted into the programs I will campaign hard for everything that they so dearly need in order to ever function decently in society.

I can't go to Sunday School anymore, haven't been for a couple of months as I must try and manage Paloma's behavior...when she goes to Sunday School she melts down as her attempts to control everyone are thwarted. My SS teacher just called me, let me know the class is praying for me and that so strengthens me. My absence is temporary.

What Do I Say?

I have 3 biological children 15,12, and 9.

I still have this overwhelming desire to adopt. We have 2 boys and 1 girl. We would like another girl. We don’t have a lot of money to adopt and are going thru The State Child Protective Services. Although I feel it’s the right thing. I am TERRIFIED. Mainly because of my bio children. They are perfect and I have never had trouble with them. They are rarely in trouble and do great in school. I am afraid I don’t know what I’m getting into. I think I know, but do I really? Can there be a successful adoption without the horror stories or is it a trial?

I've received several emails like this lately and I've sat on them awhile before answering because I really don't know what to say.

No one could have talked me out of adopting, I could NOT be discouraged. I was trained wonderfully and was very well read regarding the issues. I was young (early 30s), strong and determined to succeed. Hard-headed doesn't even begin to descibe my inner drive and massive motivation.

Now I'm...ah...different.

The main thing that remains is that I am still 100% certain that God called me to do this, and that who He calls, He will equip.

I'm still standing aren't I?

I think I have no clue as to the extent and depth of my own traumas now. When they are all grown, or even in the next few years as it begins to lighten up for me, I'm fairly afraid that I'll shatter all over the place into a million sparkling pieces that can still be picked up and glued back together, if only haphazardly. I'll need a ton of sunshine and warm weather, the smell of the ocean and the earth, and I'll recover from all this, from being a shocked victim of domestic abuse, from the stench of pure ingratitude and anger that's been dumped upon me and I'll go on, just fine, gardening and sweating, shooting off my big mouth, and giggling about life.

Daniel had lifted me up, both Yolie and I, with two sweet messages this week that bowled us both over and made life worth living as do my charming grandchildren and the majority of my other children.

But this lady has birth children still at home and that scares me for them. They will pay a price, it will exact a tremendous toll from them. But in the very long run, will that then make them even better human beings? Or resentful?

My one birth child, now 35, is as genetically strong as I am, and she has survived just fine. She's certainly had her share of understandable resentments, I made plenty of mistakes in assuming she simply, innately understood what was going on, and I underestimated the impact this would have on her, even though she'd just turned 15 at the first sibling group's arrival in our family, a decently behaved group at that. She did not live with us during the horribly tough years as she was grown, yet she's always been in the same area, now on the same dirt road, and always within emotional reach.

Cindy Adams had sent me an article that I've been unable to get off my mind from several weeks ago. She'd wondered aloud to me, "Is this what our good intentions have done?" I truly share her dismay.

So then should I discourage moms from adopting? I would certainly not want to encourage anyone to adopt anyone older than their birth children, maybe not even anyone close in age, as the potential for so much emotional damage would then be there. Your very good children will be seethingly resented for the simple fact that they exist. It is patently unfair all around, and like always, I have no answers.

If I'd have known what was coming, even as strong as I am, could I, would I have continued forward? I doubt it. Who'd put their foot in a flame when they know it's going to be painful? I ain't stoopid.

That's why God doesn't let us know what's up ahead. How would we then grow into who we should be? How would our character then be formed properly without hurtful trials?

So maybe I should encourage these women who write to me to go forward? Maybe I'm just scared I'll be blamed by them when times are tough? Maybe I've just absorbed too much transference of negative emotions over the last 20 years?

Maybe this is a decision I should advise them to make for themselves? With much prayer, thought, learning and consultations with folks who know them well and who they trust?

The Men in My Life

The men in my life seem to be all wearing brown - as in deputy uniforms. Chuy came crying to me in the kitchen this morning as I popped toast out of the toaster, poured cereals and milks, signed papers, forms, notes and agenda books. "Jose punched me about ten times in my head and face."

I flew down the hall, feathers ruffled, upset because Chuy never cries, never, ever, he's as tough as nails.

"Pepe (aka Jose), that's assault," I told him.

"I don't care, I'll kill him." Scowling, fists clenched, taller, larger and way heavier than I, leaning menacingly in my direction.

"No you won't boy," I stood my ground, sending a very frightened Chuy up to my room, grappling for my cell, knowing I needed to report this to DJJ ASAP. Unless you've looked craziness in the face, a kid with little conscience, no reasoning abilities, a bipolar diagnosis, and pure unadulterated fury over nothing...it's hard to describe the palpable fear I felt, as did Chuy, who is the birth brother of Pepe.

I was looking around blindly for Javy, knowing he was my only hope while Jose hollered, "No one can make ME do anything."

Should I call 911? Is the gate unlocked? No, they'll just release him back into my custody and then I'll be alone with him. Nope, I've been injured by him before.

He went to school, started bragging about beating up Chuy, as my Bubbas told me later. I called Juvenile Court, went down there and filed a complaint for assault, drove a copy to DJJ, looking for Miss Kim, finding her supervisor who heard me out, and upgraded the assault charge to include felony battery and terroristic threats.

I was in a frightened tizzy my ownself, pulling off my shoe to show my blackened toenail from where I'd jumped in between another altercation, "I have to keep my kids safe," I stressed, as he automatically recoiled from my toe, likely thinking this lady is a nut. Plus I was still in my pjs driving my truck from courthouse to offices, running home to change before going to the school.

Two deputies, the lead school social worker, the DJJ Supervisor, and our assistant principal all convened in his office, had Chuy seen to by the school nurse, making sure he didn't have a concussion, called Pepe up there, handcuffed him, and he's now locked up.

It was then nearly noon and I was emotionally whipped. Wiped out, but Grandpa was locked out of his car across town, we needed groceries, Jack had a sore throat, Fabian needed me to meet him and Vanessa in town, Miriam was calling, Alex was calling, I was calling Yolie and Sarah, and then the school called about Paloma so I had to go get her.

So much for the gardening plans that had originally stretched out before me.

At the courthouse a stranger had called me by name, introduced himself as a reporter wanting to do a story on us.

"Um, I'm kinda embarrassed right now," as I stood there filling out a juvenile complaint. "We've been going through a lot of difficult stuff, I'd kinda rather that you bring attention to the need for more foster homes, or mental health facilities, or help for DJJ."

"I'll call you about an angle," he told me. He'd googled me, found my blog because his original slant was on large homes in this county. Per capita, here at home, it's not that big as one divides the square feet by inhabitants.

I thought Paloma and Jonathan would blow sky high over Pepe, but they didn't, both angry at the way Chuy'd been punched in the face repeatedly. He'd been punched in his ribs also by someone who outweighs him by nearly 40 pounds.

I'm getting kinda of tired of Pepe being released from facilities only to attack and injure folks. He's now had five mental health residential placements and hospitalizations and two stints at YDC.

"He likely gonna need lifelong institutionalization," a deputy informed me right after he listed the various times he's encountered me in other distressful situations.

Folks at these institutions need to quit thinking a 54 year old lady can stop him from attacking. I need to keep my family safe. I was also deathly afraid he'd attack someone at school.