Work as a Life

Would anyone believe I had a Zero Conflict Day yesterday? I don't think I ever even raised my voice, other than to loudly once express my displeasure at the state of our kitchen when I came into the room to wash my paint brush and found a deep sink full of dishes from those who'd snack and run.

"Well at least we got 'em into the sink," Allen lamely offered up.

Still painting doorjambs, molding, and trim a deep chocolate brown and wondering why I didn't do so years ago. Seventeen years in this one distressed, over-worked house looking at scuffed up walls and baseboards, I even coated the doors, carefully painting into one particular hole that irritated me, but why replace long suffering doors now? I can wait this one out.

I am so loving Facebook, one of my oldest friends from way back when, had even found our old long-demolished building, junior high group from the mid-60s, I'm reconnecting with so many people that I'd totally lost track of for so very many years. And really, I just don't get out much, hardly even see my friends in this county, much less those who've moved away, I can't hardly talk on the phone due to the loud and non-stop demands around here, so FB was made for ole housebound pooters like me.

I even put on my Ipod to make the work go faster, dancing and painting, every single child on a rainy Saturday managed to engage themselves in positive activities that didn't break anything, nor hurt anyone. I'd have a very boring blog if life maintained itself like this, but I'd be as happy as a clam in a bed of tomato sauce, no doubt.

"All you do is work all the time," my Grounded-to-a-Grownup son commented, then flinched, knowing he'd yanked my chain, and a torrent of a lecture was sure to follow involving the fun I find in hard work, the satisfaction I get from getting it all done, and the 'everyone's gotta be doin' something' life that I lead. I find myself buffaloed at those who'd sit and stare, a favorite activity of some of my childen. Bo-ring. Drooling must be their next step.

Now off to church.

Seeds Don't Fail Me Now

I breathe such a sigh of relief each afternoon when there's drama, fights or other problems at school that do not involve anyone with my last name. The kids had told me of a willy of an incident in the 7th grade yesterday involving a helicopter, four deputy cars and zero Bodies.

Yet two hours later, I was called over there as Paloma was disrupting the school day, fortunately it was resolved quickly with little collateral damage. I'd told the teacher who'd called me, a pretty young thing who reminds me so much of my niece, Lauren, to get Chuy from the 8th grade hall until I could get there, knowing Chuy calms Paloma somewhat, but also can stop her from hurting others. Anyone else who tries to restrain her could potentially suffer later from false allegations.

I'd darted out the door, shaking wood chips from my clothes, as I'd just hauled two truckloads, finsihing my very lengthy new strawberry bed, freshly dressed in fragrant horse manure, alluring coffee grounds, beneficial brown-gold compost and topped off with a neat mulch of wood chips that made my head giddily spin with their aroma of pine. I'm so positively affected by scents which is indicated in my weird ability to smell my children apart.

An administrator had calmed Paloma down, all the other innocent sixth graders had been shooed from the room once again, and I got Paloma out the door and into the van with little fanfare for once, her waiting bus driver, who'd just pulled up, demonstrated his solidarity with a thumbs up gesture, no doubt glad to have been relieved of his own transport duties on a Friday afternoon when all the kids were majorly amped up over the possibility of the snow that never fell last night, a blessed burst of warm air that resulted only in rainfall which soaked my ready-to-be-planted strawberry bed.

I was thinking about when all my sons are grown, in just a few more years, and I'm a raggedy ole lady living here still wanting to load up trucks with garden gifts like heavy, wet, fresh manure. I best keep my arm muscles supple, not lose this ability, so I very happily shoveled load after load, not at all sore this morning, since this isn't an unusual feat for me, it's more nearly a habit.

As such, in hardly a few more years, most of my sons will be grown and gone, and truly, it's time for an official security system. I had a man give me an estimate yesterday, even allowing for a medical alert for Grandpa, since Grandma and I often run errands, leaving him alone, fighting Pulmonary Fibrosis. I hemmed and hawed over the price, the guy kept throwing in free enticements, and eventually we came to an agreement, sorta. "Lemme think about it," I'd stalled, never one to quickly make financial decisions, but this one really is a no-brainer. It's part and parcel of our electrical parent company and there'll be strategic motion detector and total peace of mind for me, a once foolhardily brave woman who's been sliced down at the knees due to many crappy, even dangerous, events over the last several years. I'm all in favor of this $16.95 a month, no contract option.

I'd told my friend, Amy, how much I was enjoying this book The NEW Low-Maintenance Garden, the picture are utterly fabulous, yet now I'm finding the emphasis on low maintenance to be stressing me out as maintaining my gardens, which are terribly high maintenance, is a joy for me, and the book's making me feel like a hick for preferring hard work over the 'fun of entertaining in a garden with less emphasis on plants.' I think I even hollered 'well kiss my butt, honey' to the author who's so not listening to me yell.

Her intended audience is so not a barefoot hillbilly living reclusively down a dirt road with 39 children clamoring daily and acting out violently...the kids that is, not the hillbilly.

It's still a superb book and I totally get what she's saying, but my need for gardening therapy far surpasses my non-existent desire to give a dang dinner party al fresco. Who'd come eat here where they might get hit upside their head by a flying plate?

Yes, all y'all over-worked die-hard gardeners, this is a beautiful book, but one might deem it noisy if one observed a yoyo like me reading it and responding aloud, but hey, that's how I am.

I wisely decided instead, to calm down before bed, perusing Suzanne Ashworth's Seed to Seed tome, trying to figure where I'd gone so wrong with some pepper seeds that are not germinating, seeds I'd carefully saved from last summer.

Seeds don't fail me now, I'd thought, then my willy-nilly mind got stuck on that old Little Feat song, Feets Don't Fail Me Now, making sleep kinda elusive once again.

And Oh. My. Goodness. I found a 1976 You Tube video of the song right here, watching it in National Geographic detached wonderment, thinking what if I could rewind my life to that year? Still then in college, with a beautiful three year old daughter, Sarah, fixing to move back to Georgia and start my public school career that is now a distant memory, having been retired for nearly eight years now, what other roads could I have taken?

What would I have done differently, knowing what I know now?

Let me count the ways....

But wait, if I truly believe I've been led by God, at least since 1982 when I gave my heart to Him, then I'm now exactly where I should be, doing what I should be doing, right? Here in the land of wet toilet seats and busted sheetrock walls.

Sowing seeds literally and figuratively.

Jean had sent me this picture in an email about not taking life so seriously which I appreciated, each picture was silly, and that I truly like. I'd seen a bumper sticker, "Support Antidepressants: Without Then I Might Have to Kill You," which was silly enough, but it was on a car at a psychiatrist's office.

JoJo'd told me an even goofier one that I can't even repeat, even though I'd immediately guffawed without thinking I was probably, and inadvertently, encouraging him. "Do NOT use that on a Facebook status," I'd ordered him. Hey, laugh or cry? I prefer to giggle, of course.

The new guy, the lead therapist on Paloma's IFI team, told me he can size up a patient within minutes, and that thought instantly intrigued me, knowing Paloma is beautiful and can put up a good front at times. Her P.E. teacher came by last night, bringing us a double bed to replace other beds that have collapsed and been battered over the years, telling me she'd never seen any of Paloma's incidents...yet.

A beautiful day yesterday that'll soon crumble into cold sogginess, as an icy rain is predicted for tonight, never a good sign, the thought of losing power over the weekend, stuffed inside with the kids, doesn't bring a happy smile to my face.

I gotten the wood chips spread, another load of manure over some garden beds, replaced the bottom stabilizing board on a wheelbarrow, and cooked a Southern delicacy, my all-time favorite Black Eyed Peas for supper, my own variation of Skillet Hoppin John, but using garden-grown garlic and the tomatoes I'd frozen before that nasty blight hit us last season. Had to use store-bought onions, but the sets I'd put out last fall are doing very well, I smiled happily at them, knowing I could pig out soon, and replace them with the sets I'd grown from seed over the winter.

I'm merely two days from my usual first Narcissus bloom, an antique variety that someone planted long ago here on this property. There's an old tenant house, likely more than a hundred years old, I often wonder who first lived here, fairly sure they were not a single white mom with nearly all Mexican children.

Even though Paloma rages through her Lithium, Abilify, Clonidine, Concerta and Lexapro, at times, Dr. C was reluctant to increase anything yesterday, both of us hoping the IFI team will facilitate change, progress, or some other form of help.

Leaving her office, both Paloma and Jonathan were on edge, tension in the air, I could nearly detect an impending explosion, one in which I will not engage in, as both kids prefer fighting over any other option, but somehow I got them both back to school without any skirmishes, leaving me with 2 free hours until my next appointment, thus the manure and wood chip hauling, me literally running behind the wheelbarrow I was pushing, just so delighted to be out in warm weather, knowing it wasn't gonna last, but squeezing what Vitamin D I could grab, thinking about Linda Up North, this picture she posted proved she's incredibly tough. Lord Have mercy, I'd have been the one huddled under a blanket, wearing thermal underwear, and caterwauling about the cold.

I'd seen a forsythia blooming, other Spring blooming shrubs are swelling with their impending display, my Sweet Williams and Shasta Daisies getting ready to send up their smiling faces in another month or so, bring to me the promise of another season of sowing and reaping, the harvest being such a high point in my life.

And I'd flat out forgotten to call my baby brother, Jimbo, on his 51st birthday yesterday, where is my mind? But first, leftover Black-Eyed Peas for my breakfast this morning, it's even better with coffee.

It's All Situational Overall

As a little girl, Sarah, now 36, was obsessed with this one book. I'd gone over to her house, finding it on her kitchen table, she was sharing her love of cooking and cookbooks with her own children now.

Your life is SO boring," my grounded-to-a-grownup kid claimed to me yesterday, as we accomplished an endless string of chores and appointments, only to have to sit on our butts for several hours in the courthouse. The hearings before us drug out so long that I was told we had time to go eat or something, like my stomach can digest food when there's such turmoil?

Instead, being the kinda girl who keeps a hay fork in her truck, we ran to a nearby park where they dump the wood chips and loaded up.

Court was uneventful, other than receiving a 'no contact' order, protecting my family at the moment, but I stress the word 'moment,' knowing the next shoe'll drop before I get turned around real good. Shaking off that ever-present sense of dread, that undefinable feeling that can paralyze one's actions and intention, and does no good in the overall scheme of life, I gotta move on.

With me later in my van, facing the church back door, waiting on all the kids to leave youth group, with Chuy and Paloma as witnesses, we saw a 13 year old girl walk up to one of my sons and slap him on the face. My eyes bugged out, this is church. He had both hands in his pockets and didn't retaliate, thankfully, staring wordlessly at the girl who flounced off.

I was floored, my grandson Ray, already in the van with us, was chattering with Tabby, and I hollered to my stunned and slapped son, "Boy, I'm right here."

Turns out, he'd broken up with her since they go to two different schools and different churches, she'd just been coming to our church to see him, reminding me how Edgar'd once attracted a flock, or a gaggle of girls, who'd come to Wednesday Night Youth Group just to flirt with him. What about getting right with God? I always wanna holler, seeing these young teenyboppers with two tons of makeup spackled on their pretty faces, kinda like some of my own emotionally insecure daughters have done.

"This is why 13 year olds have no business going steady," I bellowed at him, "What a crock of soggy sugar cereal," I was just getting wound up, before remembering to congratulate him for his remarkable restraint, but I hadda to keep going, "This wouldn't have happened if you were concentrating on soccer and school, this is ridiculous," I yammered on and on, while the rest of the kids got in the van, getting wind of this episode, all as surprised as I.

Speaking of soccer, we'd just gotten the new glossy issue of Spring Sports Activities in our county and my beautiful Tabby is on the cover. Blew me away, "Tabby!," I'd screeched out to the trampoline, using an exclamation mark, "Come here cover girl, I gotta show you something."

Like I said, the tide's been a turning, and I do attribute it to prayer. Y'all's prayer covering has been intensive and appreciated.

A dear friend of mine, I need to get her permission to use her name, a woman I'd worked with, now still teaching my children, got a grievous blow yesterday, her mother being diagnosed with ALS and knowing I have so many prayer warriors here, matter of fact my friend has prayed so often for my family, I'd like to ask for prayers now for her family as well. Prayers even for healing as I like to pray BIG. I'm all the more staggered since another sweet, kind and amazing teacher, from the same school, has left teaching due to her own ALS diagnosis. The battles that we humans face are astronomical and shocking, unfair and heart breaking. How DO people get through without God?

Four court hearings in the last five business days, four psychiatric appointments, I can't even count the psychologist meetings because we're using several resources there, alongside Dr. Mandy, because we need the IFI (Intensive Family Intervention) Services for Paloma and a specialized form for another child. My calendar demands have been ridiculously packed.

I now have a free estimate appointment with a security system salesperson. Me, the one who used to never even latch her screen door before adoption, preferring open windows and unshut doors for fresh air and night breezes; never, ever afraid of anything at all, now sure some of the criminal element in my own family will come back to steal...and y'all know I don't have squat to steal. What're ya gonna take? The broken toaster?

Funny thing is, Mayra got nominated for a 'Best Dressed' superlative at the high school. Are you kidding me? We dress out of donated bags, hand-me-downs, yard sales and Goodwill stores...but, a beauty like Mayra can sure put together a stunning outfit and walk out of here looking like a million bucks on an ensemble we might have gotten for either free or $1.

My own physical gracefulness has never been evident as it sure doesn't even exist, that's why I'm always careening into stuff, dropping things on me, or otherwise momentarily disabling my own speed. As such, as I'd also told a reader, Debbie, yesterday, my anxiety, stress and sometimes depression is very situational, rather than an organic dysfunction in my brain. It's always due to events and stuff I need to handle, and that makes me feel as if I always need to concentrate on my own physical activities that release stress, such as eating right, taking mongo vitamin supplements, remaining in prayer over everything, and now even attempting yoga, thinking that'll center me, or at least help in the physical clumsiness aspect of someone who literally remains in high gear from sunup to sundown.

I'd gleaned this yesterday, talking with a psychiatrist about a teenager's depression, learning that neither she, nor I, met the criteria for medication, something I'd rather avoid for so many reasons, knowing our livers and other vital organs can sure take a beating processing the chemicals. I'm very in favor of medication, properly prescribed, administered and fitting criteria though - very, very positive it is needed at times. Just not for me obviously right now.

Our bipolar Georgia weather, reaching 60 today, then cold, rainy and a slight chance of snow flurries tomorrow, does allow me to enjoy a free hour today, spreading wood chips that had slept in my truck bed last night, a chore I look forward to with all my heart today.

And I'm loving Facebook. Having graduated from high school in 1972, having not seen folks since then, as that was way up in southern, coastal Virginia, I'm enjoying catching up with family and friends, explaining to my children that I truly did once exist as a childless person some 36 years ago.

We're Living The Same Lives

I don't know exactly when the thought of anxiety hit my own personal radar. I'd noticed the stress certainly, but eventually realized it'd turned into a generalized anxiety issue in that my blood pressure would soar and my heart would pound deafeningly hard for long periods of time. I felt as if the muscle twitching was becoming noticeable so I googled the symptoms only to find a 100 or so possibilities, the knowledge of which then all also caused generalized anxiety within me.

It's not constant, but it is always one twitch away, due to a phone call or distressing events that spring up without warning,

I do not want medication, always afraid that any chemical intervention might impair my judgment, or my faculties, which seem to always need to be on high alert, and therein lies yet another problem also that just contributes to the crappy cycle of anxiety.

I go to bed each night always wondering if I'll be awakened with bad news or a problem to deal with suddenly, my cell phone left on, shoes by my bed, car keys within reach, my mental checklist roaring in my mind.

I simply want inner peace, as opposed to others who might mention, "I just wanna be happy again," oh honey, I'd gladly settle for simply calm.

Hard-headed contrarian that I am, I want to work on this my own self, defeat it, heal and overcome the debilitation involved, and move on. I have a very full life ahead of me, a zest for living, and a faint memory of unbridled optimism that I'm working on regaining. Outta my way devil, I want ME back.

I sat in court late into the evening with a very solicitous D.A. that was trying to re-right a wrong, only to serve as a punching bag for the defense attorney who'd told a blatant misrepresentation in court last week. It's still a long complicated story that I can't divulge, but I'll again be attending a closed room hearing today where I do believe folks are trying to help. We have 19 months and two weeks of program searching as this kid cannot return to my house.

It is all so emotionally painful on every level. I feel as if I've failed to provide the security and stability I'd once promised, yet when a crime has been committed by the other one, when family safety is priority, and when I realize how much I'd been manipulated by the cunning abilities of children who've been so tragically traumatized and are hellbent only on their own survival, exacting horrific tolls from others, I shudder and slam shut, wondering how sociopathic are these elements? What kind of adult will emerge from within?

I'd been aerobically vacuuming, thinking hard, and listening to an podcast of a recent sermon by the now Dr. David Cooper. Back when he'd been my pastor, a long-running joke in the church involved all of us congregants feeling as if he'd been reading our mail, or listening in on phone conversations, so astute was he, so able to pinpoint our human foibles, and zero in on where we needed help, reassurance, understanding, or heart knowledge, and, as he spoke on anger, I felt convicted, comprehended, re-directed, consoled, and placed on the correct spiritual path.

I'm in awe of the concept of logic. My sister-in-law, Adele, sister to my favorite brother-in-law, pointed out that I'd learned my mistakes in onion seed sowing and corrected my attempts, a take on the 'if you keep doing something the same way, you're gonna get the same results' idea. I am perfectly capable of switching horses midstream, of fine-tuning what I do as a parent, and learning from my own mistakes, of which there've been plenty, all honest ones and with originally very good intentions.

Yet I remain frustrated when my children cannot seem to do the same in any way, shape or form. I grieve for their pending adulthood, but I do understand that their synapses were not, and are not formed properly, that the drug and alcohol use by their birth mothers before their births has fried, pickled and forever changed their potential and their abilities to make well thought out decisions. It's ultimately just so sad.

I also know that I cannot enable them, that I must somehow guide, yet try and change their intended, hard wired pathways that'll only lead to doom.

I keep reminding myself that I have no answers, that possibly it cannot be done at all, that, at best, I'm here to provide a childhood, an environment that gives the tools to cope eventually in the real world, but ultimately it is what it is, which feels like a copout to a headstrong woman like me, when in reality, it is the reality.

Pat in Ohio told me, as did Robin in Texas, that I'm writing their stories so clearly, many of you tell me that, our shared experiences are sadly common in the adoption of older children. Us big-hearted women who once had very high hopes for our children, we've now nearly been laid to waste over all this, these paths we're now on, are not ever where we'd envisioned ourselves to be at all.

It's why I'm up at four in the morning, ok well that and being 55, craving coffee and the silence that accompanies me as I click and type together all my thoughts in the morning, girding up for the day, looking at my calendar, and amazed even that I can get it all done each day.

I had a kid suspended for a Facebook threat. "I was just kidding," he wailed in the administrator's office. Doesn't matter son, you can't talk like that. I'd monitored their status updates, but there's no way to control their IMs, chats, or email, or even note passing in school. Accept your consequences and try and learn from this bone-headed mistake. You're now glued to a grownup.

Adding to my anxiety, Bobby Cox will retire at the end of baseball season. No kidding, that's gonna bug the tar outta me, plague my thoughts while listening to as many games as I can this spring, summer and fall. Baseball statistics and the play by play talk soothes my soul.

Hard, physical labor, like double-digging a garden bed or hauling manure, even doing the housework at a very fast clip, or taking a long stomp (walk) helps me eliminate the feelings of impending stress which increases anxiety, so I'm fixing to shut the computer and get busy on my chores, thinking 'bout all y'all and our similar challenges.

Click over to Sarah's new post, her food descriptions are soothing also.

My Original Plans Long, Long Ago

A darling friend had reminded me yesterday, after having survived their own gut-leveling grief and inner devastation, that self-talk was, of course, important and necessary. This I do know, but in times of extreme stress, I forget. I am a mumbler, I do affirm each step, and I'm just as vocal other times in the opposite vein when I'm overcome with the messes.

So traumatized, so often fearful lately, Bible verses to counteract the inner stark terror, the massive and continuous assaults on my mind, my so called free time has been so squeezed and constricted by events, that the figurative and invisible holes in my brain, caused by severe stress, allow what's left of my good sense to trickle away.

Getting a grip, I noticed so many positive things happening yesterday, that I was really surprised.

I attribute it all to prayer and I'm very grateful to you all. I'd texted my pastor yesterday as well, something I do hardly once a year, reluctant, maybe too pridefully so, to ask for help, not wanting to appear needy, my fear always being that I'll be seen as having brought all this upon myself simply by my own choice to have a large family.

Doors did open in front of me though, a situation I cannot really verbally muddle through here, as it's still, and once again, a court case, even though a decision had been rendered without my knowledge on Friday, later blindsiding all the players.

Literally I repeat in my head thousands of times each day, "Thy will be done," because I'm presented with so many scenarios, so many dead-ends, or non viable choices, that decisions are difficult to make, and truly only do I wanna be led by God, as He's the only one with the big picture and all the knowledge.

I dearly want to concentrate on the good things, to dull the roaring in my head.

I'd planted onion seeds, rather than sets, at the end of last winter, trying to save some dollars, and losing the entire enterprise, as either I'd forgotten about them and planted over them, slammed on too much mulch, or whatever, I'd had a 100% failure rate.

The sets performed beautifully though, a 100% success, so I clearly needed to find a middle ground.

I planted my seeds indoors this year, mimicking the catalogs in that their sets would be ready by late January, so count backwards, right? Dang, it worked. I now have my own sets from seeds, at least a 75% success rate, and it's stuff like that that is thrilling to this ole bat.

But it will only be one harvest of maybe 200 onions, not enough for the family's needs for a year. I gotta work on my multiplication skills and figure this all out.

The old wives warning about thunder in January leading to snow within the next week is seemingly in our forecast. I'd listened contentedly the other night to rolls of thunder, all my outside dogs panicking like they're prone to do, Lily and I marveling at the sound of nature that we so love, and dadgum, there's now snow predicted by this weekend.

Lord have mercy, all of Georgia'll be in an uproar at the thought, me included, giddy and at the mercy of barometric changes.

A man had called last night, the new team leader of an IFI group for Paloma, reminding me we'd met years ago regarding another troubled child of mine. Good, then we can eliminate the small talk, was my hope, get down to business. This is so what I want for her, but I'm becoming kinda weary of the entire process, feeling it is of little use in the long run, ya can't cure mental illness.

I have to stop myself from such negativity, thinking about another child of mine, now grown, who'd literally left turds on the floor as smelly and inappropriate presents for me, indicating the sad, chaos level in her mind. Maybe because I'd never given up seeking help for her, even though I was often stymied and quite stressed-out during a particularly grievous eight year period, nowadays, we have a very decent relationship. Go figure.

Pepe'd also called, totally calm, doing well in his placement, acting like we were bestest friends, telling me about liking some white girl there, markedly not asking about another very close birth brother. He'd told me in the previous phone call that even he was shocked at what he'd recently seen when they were in juvie hall together, "Mom he's taking up with gangs, he's hard-hearted as _____(bad cuss word).

Well here's the deal guys, rebel against your church lady mom if you want, fight uphill against society's morals and values in your rages, but I gotta tell ya, after 36 1/2 years of parenting, add in my 25 years in the public school system, ponder what the many professionals have told you, or heck, just factor in the concept of pure logic...do you really think you know more than everyone else on earth? Really?

I don't think so, and I'll continue trying to find answers, alternatives, resources and solutions to troubling events and issues. Putting on my go-to-town outfit, dealing with legal issues, mental health professionals, CPS, and everyone else I can draw into our circle of troubled kids needing help, eventually barreling back home totally desiring the comfort and security I find there with my many good children and my gardens where logic prevails, where hard work results in a harvest and where my other children bring me home graded papers for me to admire, or sports events for me to attend...kinda my original plans here long, long ago.

A Sudden Tide Turn

Wow, did my tide turn today or what?

Thank you all for the prayer covering, it's been strikingly phenomenal.

Good things, good experiences, one after another, giving me hope in the face of some strange dangers.

One of my second cousins, London, found me on Facebook, Lowe's swapped out my burned-out Shop Vac without any hassle, I found favor in the District Attorney's Office, Dr. C fit JoJo in her busy schedule, she's been trying to properly manage the meds that'll help him curb aggressive behaviors, and another unspecified hassle evaporated, leaving me very free of the burdens some grown kids would want to dump upon me.

Wow, I feel better...way better. Again, thank you all for moving the hands of God through prayer.

Garbageman

I'm pretty stone-faced in public, the few times I ever even go out anywhere, church being the most predictable venue, and I've gotten to the point, that I dash in and run out, spending as little time as is possible inside a building where I feel like an alien outcast from anything resembling remotely normal human behavior.

It got me yesterday though.

Just because I don't drink, don't carry on, nor run around with other women's husbands doesn't also mean there's not stuff I need to work on, most notably anger and bitterness. Harboring those two negative emotions, however benign they may seem to be in the grand scheme of life, is not favorable in my Christian walk.

I have soooo much anger, soul-wrenching sadness and bitterness.

It's very difficult to be mistreated for decades and to just keep smiling, to watch angry kids literally tear up my house, lie about me, lie to me, victimize other folks, and steal everything that isn't nailed down.

To have been this sacrificial for so long, only to end up with felons?

It's tough to swallow at times.

We foster and adoptive parents, heck anyone in the world, we all find ourselves with no defense against those who'd lie about us. That may have been one of the number one complaints I've heard from all y'all parents.

When these lies get back to us, we just stare helplessly, knowing there's nothing we can do about it. People who've known us for 30 years will listen to an outlandish story from a wide-eyed, uber-manipulative, conniving teenager, and believe this kid who's already involved with the law.

Huh?

It always makes me very glad that I am reclusive to the bone.

I'm left with precious few options, other than to hunker down and take it on the chin, but after so many years my chin is brittle, scarred, and badly injured.

I thank God constantly that both Yolie and Sarah, and their families, live here on our original acreage. I never have to leave the dirt road if I wanna see and be with smart, engaging, loving family members. I can call Daniel, who never ignores my calls.

That's very, very comforting to me.

I went to the altar yesterday, not caring if there'd be resulting fist fights in the church pews in my brief absence, knowing both Preston and Chuck were ushers that morning...bouncers in my world.

Yolie went too, and we both cried like babies, me hating to show tears in public, but whew honey has it been a stressful, dismal stretch of years, or what? I then cried to Sarah, but quickly got my self out the door before anyone else saw me crack like that.

I went home and crawled amongst my plants in the family room, reading Colossians from my Bible back when David Cooper was my pastor, re-reading my notes in the margin, notes I'd written when I was in my 20s and was then idealistic and dumbly gullible, believing folks had purer hearts, cleaner motives and completely unaware of the evil that would later visit and badly damage my life. I cried some more and prayed for doors to open.

The grievously dumb things that some of my conscience-less grown kids do, comes back to me, via the words of others, and I wanna warn the other gullible, help-minded adults who are getting sucked into their vicious webs of deceit and potential disasters.

I'm learning though to just leave it to God to handle.

Yole and Chuck came by and we discussed a bunch, me eventually coming away with the heart knowledge that I've done all this for God, not for man, and He will see me through. Simple, ain't it?

I do believe that, but being human, I struggle a lot.

I don't have a particularly enjoyable week ahead of me, some unpleasant hurdles to climb over and endure, yet I must force myself to look at the good and decent things in my life, just to not be overcome with grief and frustration regarding the rest of the crud.

My stone face cracked, my soul is wobbly, and my inner strength needs an uplift. I'm going to get the kids to school and crawl back in my Prayer Chair amongst my plants. I always considered myself to be just the mom, in reality...I'm just the garbageman.

Oh JoJo

Practicing to be homeless? Who knows, but this kid makes me laugh when he's not irritating the tar outta me. Hours of fun with a large cardboard box until Paloma decided to make everyone miserable. Long boring story, not worth the words to repeat it all.

I allowed a car date for Mayra last night. She's 16, he hadda come meet me, and I made a nine p.m. curfew, as they were just going to the high school basketball game a mile away from our house, but they don't call me over-protective for nothing. "Who's your mama?" I always wanna know.

JoJo, my nutbird pictured here, got to the guy first, and informed him Mayra was hunting for the plunger, as she'd taken a massive dump due to the enchiladas we'd eaten for supper.

Oh brother.

You should've heard the rest of his comments he'd made during supper, this was the least offensive of all.

Am I over my angst of yesterday? No, just over yanking about it. I have too much to do right now to obsess over criminals.

Gotta get everyone ready for church right now.

The System Is Broken

Do all once idealistic, naive and hopeful people get the crap figuratively beat out of them at some point? Are there any hopeful old people? Or does time and horrific experiences drain folks of any last gasp of optimism? Are we destined to die of broken hearts, destroyed dreams, and the bitter losses that we all grind through so sadly?

I clearly remember many, many years ago, in the infancy of internet egroups, when so many of us large family mothers found each other, and a common conversational thread was how our neighbors, family and confidants all warned us, gave us horror stories about well-meaning people like us dumb dreamers, who'd adopted older kids from the foster care system and had been literally destroyed in the process.

We all thought that won't happen to us.

All of us, every single one of us, still in contact via blogs, email, phone calls and Facebook have been brought to our skinned-up, busted knees by the Hell we have long since endured, and it is not just us big families, but other gentle visionaries, people who just wanted to share their material blessings, yet have simply been subsequently and shockingly devastated.

Y'all's emails to me so often start with, "I only have one, or two, or four children, but..." and I know it's not the number of the children, but the crazy level of the violence and danger that does us in each day, complicated by the unfair blame we get for their issues that they brought with them into our once-happy, undamaged homes.

As I was on the phone with a state level CPS worker, I received a call beeping in from a local worker with a DJJ issue that ballooned into pure terror within my heart, and within the heart of the original victim, who still, of course, lives with me. A flurry of phone calls, thank God Dr. Mandy was here with us, a fairly quick resolution, however stopgap and temporary it seemed to be, left me cut down at the knees, emotionally wounded once again and terribly fearful of the next day.

Not wanting the rest of my family to know what was going on, for fear of having them all fall apart, I kept stepping into the pantry, front porch, or out in the garage, to take the phone calls, eventually I'd just sat on a crate in the garage and sobbed, then getting a grip, and returning inside with swollen eyes and a stricken look on my face that precluded any questions from anyone.

A sleepless night, me choosing my words carefully here, not able, nor willing at the moment to pour it all out, knowing that the repercussions can be annihilating.

Literally I want to call an attorney and file a class action suit against states that expect adoptive parents to endure victimization, criminal behaviors, and abject criminally sick violence. Don't we also deserve to live in a safe environment? Or are we just written off, thought of as stupid, for choosing these children? So long, sucker.

After we parents have tried for many, many years, sought out every available resource, and have endured countless and horrific nightmares...may we then give up? Ask the states to take over and do what is physically impossible for any human being to do?

We KNOW from bitter experience, from terror-filled nights, from officials who either ignore us, pooh pooh our realizations based on events, or tell us there is nothing they can do based on our fears (which arise from real incidents), we absolutely know 100% that someone will reoffend and that someone else will be hurt. We must warn others.

These offenders are not cured, stabilized, nor rehabilitated, no matter what seemingly obedient or compliant face they now can put on to chump others. They've learned to play the game and work the system, to escape punishment and to manipulate professionals.

Deep down inside my faith in God has not wavered a bit, my inner emotional strength is still there, and I am also physically very strong in that I still possess the necessary energy and endurance needed to run a large family.

But I can not be expected to live with convicted criminals, nor can I safely manage severely ill behaviors of children with little, if any, conscience. It is not fair even to those children to be expected to live in families, to attend regular schools, and be expected to function normally when they cannot do so. It is not their choice to act out, they are driven to do so by a combination of factors that normal, regular parents cannot redirect with sticker charts or reward systems.

Our other normal children, and those children with issues that can be resolved, deserve to live safely.

I remain shocked and horrified by what I've seen and experienced over the years.

Would I advise others to adopt from the foster care system?

No, I would not. Not until the system changes, not until there is help and understanding for adoptive parents who simply wanted to help children have successful lives.

I grieve for the Yolies and the Daniels still out there in the system, for children like the majority of my children who've succeeded as service men, college graduates, home owners, parents, or simply common working folks...that's the majority of my family...but to have been forced to endure the rest of it?

Oh heck no, the system is very, very broken.

I was very fortunate, last night, in that all the involved authorities helped me immediately. They really did so, but that doesn't take away from my own inner terror. I have neither the time, nor the excess energy, to put up the kind of fight that's gonna be needed to protect us in the long run. It takes 150% of what I have to just do the usual work every day, the normal work.

But I'm gonna have to do so. I'm in total prayer, begging God to tell me what to do, to guide me correctly, to protect us all, and since folks are always asking how they can help, and I so rarely have any suggestions, I'd like to now beg just that you'd join me in prayer for all the doors to open, for things to change, for how I should proceed in seeking help for such terribly damaged children. I thank you all in advance, just as I also thank God for always strengthening me and leading me. Pray for Paula and Merilee, pray for all adoptive mothers who need to be healed, protected, and strengthened,

Someone as strong as I am, needs Him all the more, of that there is no doubt in my mind.

Someday I will have time to heal from within, to regain all that I've lost, the magnitude of those losses is enormous, it's easily going to take the next 50 years for my heart rate to return to normal, for my very battered, bruised feelings to be revived and restored to their once normal state, for my own life to not be a series of heart-wrenching, gut-stabbing, beat over the head with two by fours events that seem to be so unrelenting and unendurable.

The huge majority of my family is wonderful, very good kids with bright futures and I love them with all my heart and soul. I will repeat that thought in my head all day long as I keep on keeping on.

A Little League mother, from years past, had Facebooked me yesterday after seeing the article about Daniel, reminiscing over those fun, happy years as we'd both cheered our sons on in their games, reminding me of the once usual joy I'd lived with, that has seemed to be so overshadowed lately by unmitigated terror and abject fear at times.

Dear Lord, please lead me as I should go...

Not Unhappy At All

Jesse's son, Isaiah, looking to be as impatient as I am for baseball season to be underway.

I did not disrupt on Pepe, although that is a future option, for the moment, he is in the custody of two different agencies.

Anyone knows how hard it is to let go of a child, let them grow into a man, and especially so the contrast I face between wanting to be free of Pepe's danger, versus hating that nearly 20 years of parenting Daniel has sped by me. As a young child, he'd been an incredibly cute, enormously curious, sports-minded child, more than easy to raise into the realm of daily rewards, always making me smile.

So weird to stand there and have him pay for his own Lasik eye surgery, not that me paying would even have been a possibility, but it was disconcerting for me. He'd wanted me to drive his jeep, that he'd also paid for, versus my rickety truck that might jar him painfully after eye surgery. I complied, and fell in love with his Sirius Satellite radio system. First he'd thoughtfully put it on a 70s station, but hey folks, I'm really old, a mom by the 70s, so he'd put it on the 60s station for me, telling me there were even Frank Sinatra stations or Elvis ones.

Listening to 40 year old music, transposed me, in my mind, back into the time I was carefree, young and wild, since way back then, it was a much safer era. Conveniently forgetting society's turbulence in the 60s, I concentrated on thoughts of my friends back then, glad now that I've been reconnecting with them on Facebook this year. It's as if, upon my return to Georgia in the 70s, I'd slipped through a trapdoor from coastal Virginia, sliding into rural oblivion and into the all-consuming, back-breaking demands of a very large family, losing touch with dear friends for many, many years.

Now I feel as if I'm barely a few years from Freedom, the large majority of my family now teenagers. Even at 55 I'm still strong enough to feel young enough to have a lotta fun years ahead of me when these daily demands will cease. Being a dirt-digger at heart, it's not as if my eventual freedom will lead to dancing all night, rather my gardens and horticultural pursuits will increase both in magnitude and depth, resulting in inner rewards for me.

We'd had to drive over an hour away for this eye surgery, stopping at a Wild Wings Restaurant, always a thrill for me, I feel like an imposter, a renegade who's snuck out when I find myself out in public with normal people. One girl wearing a t-shirt that read, "Beer, Not Just For Breakfast Anymore."

I, of course, wanted to shake her by her irresponsible shoulders and ask if she's ever raised anyone with FAE or FAS, ever seen a drunken birth parent beat the tar out of a child, or even had a DUI. What, girl, are you stupid? I wanted to holler, but didn't, feeling like an ole prude with my disapproving thoughts.

But hey, I'm slap jealous of, I dunno, everyone on HGTV. A lady about my age, showing the cameras through her awe inspiring home, "This is my dream," she gushed, "My haven to come home to each day," like any other normal person might say, while ever the oddball, I remain flabbergasted and irked that traumatized, angry, troubled kids think it is ever OK to attack walls, items, people and furniture in my home.

I'd had such an enjoyable day with Daniel that I'd totally dreaded my re-entry into Planet Nuthouse. For this eye surgery they give you a Valium initially, years ago during my own Lasik surgery, it'd taken three to calm my hyperactive, medically-challenged fool self down. Daniel, one of the calmest, most unruffled, unflappable men on earth, made do with just one tablet. Dude, I wish I were like you.

He'd not seen the newspaper article about him, so I'd brought it for him to read, both of us irritated at the A word. Why is it necessary to dilute our relationship with the adopted word? As if? Does anyone really think I'd ever introduce him as my adopted son? He is my son. Period.

We'd had about an hour or so in the waiting room, there's hardly anyone on earth I'd rather be with, laughing and cutting up, me trying to convince him to spend the night at our house so I could take care of him, him knowing better, like it'd either be quiet there or conducive to healing. Hmmmm, home to his big screen TV, that he'd also paid for, or home with Mama where he'd likely have to break up a fight? Not a tough choice. I very reluctantly hugged him goodbye in his own living room.

When my phone rang at 6:30 this morning, my heart went into uber-pound mode, uh-oh, immediate prayer that Daniel is OK, always afraid it's a deputy with news I don't wanna hear, however it was the Sears Repairman, thirty more minutes before my breathing returned to normal, yet another Trauma indicator. I walked around mumbling, "gardens heal you, gardens heal you, water the plants, water the plants," until my pulse rate returned to normal.

I'd talked with both Alex and Vanessa last night before bed, one in Atlanta, the other in Tennessee, my mind drifting back to when they'd both been 6th graders together, the last grade one would ever complete in a public school setting. Very trying years followed with both girls, I'm not totally at ease with where either girl is now in their life, both 20 year olds, but maybe the fact that they still have a healthy emotional connection with me is enough?

I'm proud that both girls are making their way in life, that they still call their mama, I mean, really, considering the battles they'd fought, the hills they've climbed, the early trauma they'd endured...maybe this is enough...and I'm not unhappy at all about it.

Go Be Free

There's just no way to live with this unrelenting level of trauma and not be affected. I know for certain, my oldest daughter, Sarah, carries the scars of this secondary anguish, as do my parents from my choice to have stepped out into this world some 20 years ago.

I'd accidentally poured boiling water on my garden hand when draining the beans last night, hurrying to get everyone to church, alarming my mother who'd been standing there in the kitchen. I hollered and carried on, but the skin did not blister, or maybe my feelings are so dang numb after all these years of hatefulness.

Like abused children have learn to withhold, to shut down their emotions, so too have I certainly been emotionally crippled over the years.

I spoke with several adoption professionals yesterday, one telling me that in reality when older children are placed with the initially idealistic, hopeful adoptive parents , as I once was long ago, that they should be told, "There are, and there will be, very few success stories, often it'll only feel as if you are a way station, warehousing children, versus enjoying the family feel of a situation, there'll be long, abject years of misery." That is the reality.

Even if I'd have stopped adopting after my first 15 children, back in the mid 90s, when children coming out of the foster care just weren't as severely emotionally damaged as the children I now see, I'd still have been somewhat frustrated over the fact that the once-expected emotional closeness just isn't there, that I'm still resented for doing what the birth mother could, or wouldn't, do for them, the lack of any level of gratitude is so far past astonishing and into the realm of rude.

I wish I'd known this 25 years ago, the slow death of hope has been infinitely painful.

Sharon and Claudia both touched on the Haiti orphan situation, potential adoptions pending, echoing what my own mother had told me last night. Although we're shocked and dumbfounded at the devastation and misery in Haiti, we can both look into the eyes of the gorgeous babies waiting to be adopted, and know what the adoptive parents might later face. Sharon hit the nail on the head, speaking about the unresolved trauma issues.

And everyone's focusing on the babies, which is good of course, but what about the orphaned older children?

So am I advocating that people forget about helping children? No, not at all.

But one's expectations need to be stripped down to the bare, painful reality of what will really happen.

I had to do the unthinkable yesterday in court, I had to admit, to declare, that I simply could not keep my family safe if Pepe were allowed to live with us. I stood my ground, however apologetically, not liking the cold legal language, not liking either my options nor the reality of what I was having to do, but being one million percent positive and secure in my decision, that this was the only way. I'd sought the advice of people I trust and had been reassured, even the judge telling me, "we've done this before when its been necessary," as I was physically balking and internally twitching, my emotional distress obvious.

But I'd rather look bad in the eyes of anyone who'd judge me, rather than have to endure the type of situations I've still not had the stomach to blog about.

I remain scared, scarred and horrified by what I've seen.

I was reminded by this adoption professional, given a ray of hope, as she feels I'll eventually have even more success stories within my family. I hope and pray she's right. Logically it should be so, but I live entrenched in the very difficult, even murderous behaviors, of severely troubled children, and my own hopes have been hugely shattered and diminished over the decades.

"You used to be one of the most positive people I'd ever met," she stated.

The death of that optimism, or maybe simply the crippling of it, has shattered me and I'm still fighting within myself to heal emotionally and to regain all my original, even formidable, inner strengths.

I'm having to eliminate, to shut some people out of my life, people who'd seek only to harm me both emotionally and physically since I just cannot, nor will not, play their mind games. Life is too short and I have so many loving family members that I prefer to hang around with and to enjoy life.

Pepe called me last night, I'm still his parent, just not the one that has to provide shelter for him if, and when, he's kicked out of a facility, or when he makes 'minimal progress,' attacks others, or flares up and displays his overly aggressive tendencies combined with a stultifying lack of remorse.

Jesse called from Texas, without using the obvious words, rather reminding me via only the sound of his voice, that he is someone I'm so proud of, I'm grateful I'd gone to San Antonio that one week 15 years ago. Back then I'd met a painfully shy, enormously cute young man, bordering on his adolescent years, he was then wary and afraid. Now he's an emotionally strong father and husband.

Today I'll be with Daniel, driving him to get his Lasik surgery, just as he'd done for me years ago when the surgery had been a gift from the eye surgeon. A wonderful gift for a woman who'd worn glasses since third grade. Daniel had then literally held my hand and watched the procedure with fascination. I was all valiumed up, but still very nervous, as I'm so medically challenged. Today I'll wait for Daniel in an adjoining room, unable to stomach the details, lost in a book I hope.

Yesterday, before the gut-wrenching court situation, I'd worked steadily for three hours out back, wishing with all my might that life would calm down, praying that I'd have more time outside to piddle, to weed, to work in the garden beds which help dissipate my never-ending level of stress.

The grown kids that couldn't wait to get shut of me and my stupid rules? Once 18 they're free of me and I'm dismally discovering that they then often just amp it up, knowing I'm not legally responsible anymore for enduring their negative proclivities. Now they act out still as if that'd draw me back into the web? I don't think so.

What the heck?

Go live your life, I'll leave you alone. I promise. You're free.

And honey, I'm free too. I've served my time. Now I serve up forgiveness and pray that your life will be blessed.

Bye now.

Silly Boy

If I could explain these behaviors...

Called by 8:30 to the school by a crying teenage son, "I can't take it today," he'd sobbed, and knowing he'd struggled so much lately, I went to get him, sitting with the guidance counselor by then, she, too, agreed he'd not be able to function in school that day.

This is not enabling.

This is a depressed, anxiety-ridden child, seeing a psychiatrist and a psychologist, overwhelmed at the thought of functioning amongst so many allegedly normal children.

He did fine at home with me, but even he became alarmed by my second financial hit from nowhere of the day, putting his arm protectively around me, as I discussed with a repairman a big ole bill, like my son could help?

He did, however, need to watch me function, see me absorb bad news, and deal appropriately with it, move on forward, taking care of business, doing what needed to be done in spite of obstacles and barricades.

The entire dreaded ordeal with Pepe's therapeutic placement never materialized at all. Four phone calls from CPS, one to the Lt. Governor's Constituent Services Coordinator, and it was all done...for the moment.

Finally I began to breathe a little bit, slipping out back to fight my nemesis Bermuda grass, thinking at least the next day I'd have an entire warm day home alone, only to learn via yet another phone call that I'd need to attend a court hearing about Pepe in the afternoon, which means I need a babysitter since I'll likely not be home by three.

But maybe, possibly this morning I can burst outdoors for dirt therapy? For a couple hours?

So warm outside that I've opened doors and windows, ridding the house of the stale winter air we've been breathing, replacing it with the promise, however far off, of Spring, a time of total giddiness for me.

Baggies of Vitamins and Jelly Beans

Claudia blogged about us parents and attachment disorder, the contagiousness factor, and to that I'd add we're also supremely vulnerable to trust issues, massive grief, debilitating fear, and absolutely every single other thorny issue common to traumatized individuals.

I've become a bit of a wreck over the years, and after hearing from so many of y'all, I can only deduce the commonality of everything. I know we'd once all had stars in our eyes, dreams of sharing our strengths and blessings with others, and an unbelievably naive determination to simply help.

Lily carefully laid out seven piles of all my vitamins and herbal supplements, putting them into baggies so I'd remember to take everything all this week, still intent on rebuilding myself and regaining who I once was, as I do have adoring and adorable grandchildren who need an uncrushed Abuelita. So too do my very attached children, which is the majority of my family. As for the rest...those who'd do us physical, spiritual, or emotional harm? I'm out.

As headstrong as I still am, I truly am a wounded, fairly fragile shell of who I once was, now very content to remain huddled behind locked gates, avoiding humanity, shunning society, very, very leery and sometimes wild-eyed, feeling too intimidated by the monstrous pitfalls and vengeful paybacks I've encountered in my guileless and once ferocious desire to help others.

Sarah's on a quest to become even less of a consumer, to be even more careful about the food she serves, to create rather than to consume, and she and I'd been involved in a conversation, intriguing to us both, as we thrive on such sensible challenges.

Our friend, Jessi, is calling it a winnowing, she'd once gone a year without stepping foot in Wal-Mart, a feat I truly admire.

One phone call irked me yesterday, ruining a delightful afternoon of warm temperatures and sunshine. As she's done for 36 wonderful years, Sarah was keeping me company as I weeded the front garden beds, the kids were jumping on the trampoline, swinging on the tire swing (that one just doesn't see in neighborhoods anymore), and making mud pies. She was knitting fingerless gloves as we talked.

It was a courtesy call, surprising on a holiday, but giving me an appreciated heads up in my quest to keep Jose in therapeutic placements and away from the potential victims in my home. People, he'd informed the judge, he may hurt. I became very frustrated since, on the surface, it appears as if there's no safety anywhere for us. Finally it dawned on me, "OK, Sarah, we're being stupid, bow your head," I told her, and we prayed that all the proper doors would again open for us, that I'd be guided today in which way I should go.

The 'stupid' moniker was due to me always forgetting that God is in charge and that He will see us through somehow.

I could see a cloud descend upon Sarah, who has had to spend way too many years worrying that something might happen to me, so unfair that she'd should be so negatively impacted, obviously the fear is contagious, the subsequent trauma is visible within us both.

Hazel and Ray Ray were soon joined by CJ and Mae Mae, giddy in the warm sunshine, freed from the housebound cold that had wrapped Georgia in a blanket of fuzzy greyness it had seemed. I found my hyacinth bulbs starting to protrude from the earth, the iris tentatively poking up, ready to begin its yearly cycle. I love the gardening timing that I can depend upon regularly.

CW came out and helped me prune while I prayed silently, with all my heart, for our safety, and for joy to become dominant once again after so many horribly stressful years.

Unless one has lived with the abject terror of constantly knowing someone will erupt violently...this from sad experience...one just can't comprehend the underlying, potential danger. Jose had jumped on a counselor's back, has another simple assault charge pending, this was the back of a large man...and y'all think I'm safe? It's not even so much me, as it is the younger kids, in this house that I am mandated to keep safe.

I woke up at 4:41 again, as I'm prone to do, thinking I needed to have both Tabby and Nando count out 100 jelly beans that I'd asked Yolie and Chuck to pick up for me at the store, leave in my mailbox, as the gate was locked, and we'd been settling down by the time they'd gone to Wal-mart. I fretted for a few minutes, stressing over Jose as well, came downstairs for coffee and to blog, loving the quietness of early morning alone time. I checked my phone to find that Yolie'd texted me late last night that she'd counted out two baggies of 100 jellybeans each for us, knowing we wouldn't have time to do so in the morning.

A load off of me, a simple gesture that helped immensely. It's a celebration in their classrooms, of the 100th day of the school year.

Right before bedtime, I'd had yet another adolescent male come unglued. Saying all my goodnights and hugging, I'd heard pitiful sobbing from a bedroom. I sat on the edge of his bed for 45 minutes, glad he was sobbing versus punching walls, but hating that he was so heart-wrenchingly sad and unable to tell me why.

I don't think he knew.

A PB & J, a tall glass of milk, time with Mama rubbing his back and waiting it out, eventually he'd stopped crying and fallen asleep. I know other teenage boys don't sob so wretchedly. I know the depths of grief my children have experienced before adoption is profound, the losses unfathomable, the hurts are unfixable. I get that. It breaks my heart as well, makes me sad and angry that I was not there for them in their toddler years when they saw and experienced the Hell that they endured.

Finally my house was quiet, although I could still hear Martin and Chuy's deep voices laughing in their bedroom that's directly under mine, eventually even they'd settled down, and I felt it was safe to go to sleep, door alarms on, and I fought internally to still my own racing mind, and try to make myself calm down also and to slumber.

Frustrated Yes, Bored, Oh Heck No

My life has been transformed by a gallon of paint. Dingy doesn't do it justice, handprints on every door jamb have worn away the once white paint and displaced it with gloomy, drab markings. I patiently, with little brushes, covered it in a chocolate espresso hue that prompted Sabrina to comment, "It looks like a rich person's house now!" with unbridled excitement, as she conveniently overlooked the furniture from Goodwill.

JoJo had a mini-meltdown, still struggling with some inner demons I'm having a hard time helping him get past, he'd spent Friday evening talking to Dr. Mandy, and is still unable to yank himself back into Progressville.

I came out of church to glimpse the sun for a minute, it was warm outside, and the birds were tweeting enough for me to have a whopping wave of Spring Fever overcome me momentarily, nearly blinding me with the immediate hope and promise of a large garden harvest. I teetered there for a moment, in the back parking lot, absorbing the excitedness I always get each Spring - that so isn't here yet - but it would've been hard to get the goofy grin off my face.

Pastor Tony'd made an interesting point regarding our Christian walk, knowing it isn't always pretty, nor rewarding. Sometimes it's simply enough to just show up, to just keep walking in our faith, which most days, that's likely all of us really ever do, and I found it comforting. I'll just keep showing up.

I personally think Michael Pollan said it best, and oh so simply, when he wrote In Defense of Food or The Omnivore's Dilemma. "Eat Food. Not Too Much. Mostly Plants," which pretty much covers it, but I'd read he still had folks asking him literally for food rules, so he's involved in a new project that I keep quoting excerpts from as I read them online.

One of my favorites, "Don't eat cereal that changes the color of your milk in the bowl."

I'd had my own canned response, regarding cheese, that I'd abandoned during the years I still worked and had a ton of children clamoring for dinner. Cheese did not come out of the cow orange. That always appalled me, but I'd given in for quite some time, just to keep the peace around here. Then I felt as bad as if I'd served crack for dinner, so I ditched it once again. The Straight Dope: Fighting Ignorance Since 1973 (It's Taking Longer Than We Thought) cracked me up.

The more I read about refined sugar, the happier I am to not be addicted to it.

Today my little Tony is 14, developmentally delayed, often struggling over everything, he was my shadow yesterday, crouched down the hall, wiping up paint drops I'd spewed.

I'm taking a painting break today in favor of hauling manure, planting tomatoes inside, castigating myself over not getting around to making soil blocks, the kids are home for MLK Day, and I'm swamped with stuff I've postponed, but I'd rather be pressured than bored. I don't think I've ever been bored a day in my life, frustrated for sure, but never bored.

And honestly? All this mega-energy I have? My ability to work circles around much younger people? Honey, it's plant-based energy, I'm not bogged down internally from sodas, pop tarts, dead animals, nor chemicals dressed up like food imitations. I run on high-octane real food.

Maybe Brenda Is Right?

Oh please forgive me for not getting back to answering comments and emails this three day weekend when it's rainy and the kids are home.

Prioritizing everything, food first with this bunch, and all the work I need to get done, I'm nearly now always away from the computer, especially since I left the adoption.com writing job and Adopt America. News reports bring anxiety into me and my Blackbery keeps me connected enough to where I can shut it down after blogging and move forward.

I painted the long hall a beautiful grey/blue shade picked out by Chuck who knows color nuances, and today I plan to do the trim in a deep brown to cover the many indelible layers of fingerprints.

It took me a solid five hours to paint, as I was carefully tending to the chore at hand, yet Jonathan inexplicably and very suddenly had a rage over nothing. Maybe alarmed at the progress I was making? Who knows?

He went to his room and started banging on his walls, as if negating my painting progress six feet away in the hallway. I had to walk off as my blood boiled with resentment in my veins, the harder I work, the more they amp it up. He called me nasty names, I never engaged (except in my head) and eventually he cried like a baby and apologized. Go figure. It's as if they have seizures that come out of nowhere, caused by nothing, and later stopped by no one. I have no answers, just long, tough years of experience.

The other kids ignored it all as well, preferring to play games on the computers and to watch the video I'd rented, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, as the rain pounded outside.

Finally at ten I got to go take a shower only to discover that the shower head holder, once carefully and properly hung by Daniel, now hung uselessly and was impossible to reconnect. Crapola. Super glue as a remedy?

So many plans and ideas flitting through my brain, The Adoption Counselor absolutely cracked me up with her assessment, hence my title this morning. An Uh-oh, she might be right moment, me too honey, I understand.

Also it's the mid-life emotional freedom that I relish, that allows me to plan ahead with gusto, women in our fifties have so much of the drudgery behind us, so many possibilities before us, or at least that's the way I feel, emboldened by what I've survived, happy for the years ahead of me.

Sarah blogged about spicy green cabbage.

Counting Today's Blessings

What if I'd never found gardening as my deep love and my all-consuming avocation in life? Would I not then have been the most unfulfilled, hyperactive-with-no-outlet, miserably crabby person on earth? Would I have driven my children to the bat house without gardening to eliminate my stress?

What if I'd never learned this joy in producing my own food or growing Sweet Williams? The thrill I get from the constant, never-ending, back-breaking work that fries my skin and rips my hands to shreds?

I was slow to even want to read this book, The NEW Low-Maintenance Garden: How to Have a Beautiful, Productive Garden and the Time to Enjoy It by Valerie Easton. It'd been reviewed favorably in every gardening blog I'd read, I love the blog, The Garden Rant, mainly because it espouses many of my own earthbound feelings, such as no tilling and ignoring other unnecessary rules that only stymie one's creativity. Heck y'all, just imitate nature. I've never staked a tree in my life, and I never will, knowing intuitively that its swaying in the breezes simply stimulates root production. Duh.

Mulch is not a tidy skirt, a ridiculous circular mound that extends a carefully measured six inches out, but rather one must go, in an often raggedy fashion, to the drip line, copying the way leaves fall naturally to decompose into the ground as food and protection.

Easton writes, "That's the essential challenge. Limited time and resources, as well as changing weather patterns, make it smart if not imperative to find new, more sustainable models of gardening."

Paloma'd picked a fight at school, missed the bus, and I'd had to go pick her up, fortunately she'd cooled down, thanks to a few teachers who were able to talk her down. DJJ came to our home for their monthly appointment, and we'd ended our day with Dr. Mandy who'd carefully explained to me how the ADHD medications work, since I'd expressed alarm at adding a stimulant to Jojo's regime, picturing a me on speed or something. Good gracious.

My middle school kids had wanted to go to Middle School Madness last night, while the high schoolers asked to go to the basketball game, only to later punk out, tired after the week. The middle schoolers did go out however, and I settled down to read a book I thought I'd disagree with, but gleaned a new idea by the third page. I remembered how I'd go to Daniel with my ideas when he was a youngster, knowing even at age 10, he could figure out how to make something happen for me. Lord I miss that.

This being a small county, I'm getting compliments from folks who'd watched Daniel grow up, reading the nice story on him in the weekly paper, but honestly y'all, both Yolie and I'd wondered aloud, had expressed our initial fear that to counteract this joyfulness is often a corresponding arrest report of another kid, but fortunately not this week, I'm happily coasting on Daniel's coattails.

Interestingly enough, not a single other kid in our family is ever jealous of Daniel, rather they adore and appreciate him always, because he truly is just that nice and admirable.

Rain is predicted later today, do I have time to run get another load of manure since it's Saturday and I'd have Bubba help, or should I just open the can of paint I bought, and start on the long hall? Restless each morning, I never feel like just curling up with a book, I could plant the tomatoes in their trays, start the hibiscus seeds, or crank up the shop vac...so many choices, so little time.

Yesterday I'd done all my chores, and more, but managed my time well enough to run to The Big Back Garden by one in the afternoon, knowing I had two solid hours in which to weed out some Bermuda grass that wants to insert it's rabid tentacles around my oregano patch, three dogs accompanied me, I didn't even want my Ipod, preferring to listen to crows cawing at each other, my roosters carrying on and squirrels chattering. Nothing on earth puts such a happy smile on my face.

Allen had initially balked at school, in his words "I need a Mama Day," but he'd heard himself try and explain that odd toddler concept to his 8th grade girlfriend, and realized other kids don't do that, so he'd gone a little tardy to school, but with my blessing. I get it that he's emotionally needy, that he's dependent upon his own inner, yet shaky feelings of security, and that Jojo'd rattled his cage this week with his own major meltdown, and that always affects Allen as well.

Dr. Mandy listens to how our week has gone, chooses who to see, trying to carefully meet the psychological needs around here, over in the sunroom of Grandma's house that guarantees privacy. My children adore her, look forward to seeing her, relate perfectly to her, and respond appropriately. Yesterday, concentrating on the sib group that had been so needy this week, reassuring and counseling each one, I am so glad and grateful that she's here for us.

We are blessed to have found her and the office behind her with Dr. C and Dr. G.

Beating the Odds Again

"This just might be the dumbest thing I've ever done," JoJo predicted, balancing on the tailgate of my truck carefully, before belly-flopping into a pile of manure while I watched in non-surprise.

"Nope, it's not," I told him, thinking of the past ten years of his shenanigans.

The manure is mixed with finely ground wood shavings, which are naturally soaked in the nitrogen of horse urine that feeds garden plants so wonderfully. I'd been leaning on my shovel, admiring the steam that was billowing on such a warm afternoon. We'd already hauled $32.10 worth of 100 bricks to finish a new long garden bed, filled my truck with sacks of leaves from an in-town neighborhood, plus procured coffee grinds from Starbucks, happily rounding out my joyful day that didn't include court, appointments or meetings.

Nearly 60 degrees, anything over 48 draws me outside to work, and JoJo was needing a Mama Day in a very big way. The emotional neediness when one adopts older children is extreme. My children are fragile, the lack of nurturing when one is a baby has lifelong consequences.

A commenter stepped on my feelings, suggesting I was a martyr, a word I do not like at all, as I feel the majority of my life is of my own making, through all my various choices, and I go through life full steam with a pure system unadulterated by alcohol, any sort of chemical enhancement or food additives.

When one adopts from the foster care system, one child or 38 children, there's gonna be hell to pay. That's just the way it is, we gotta deal with it, even though y'all have certainly heard me carrying on here emotionally at times. I carry on here because I have like-minded mamas as an audience, adoptive or foster care parents, often with large families and mental health issues.

I'd spoken on the phone with two other adoptive moms yesterday, both in turmoil much worse than my own at the moment, but predictably almost when one considers their children's case histories. Italicizing at the moment to remind myself the tide can change at the drop of a hat, both positively or negatively.

Missing my Fire Hot Pepper Sauce, having consumed several gallons this fall, and drained my resources, last night I planted the seeds of 200 jalapeno pepper plants for this coming season, I'll start my tomato plants tonight, and I'd spent the big bucks ($19.95) on a frost blanket to get a jump on sowing the lettuce seeds outdoors soon.

Waiting on something, somewhere recently, I'd read some two year old back issue of a magazine interview with Sidney Poitier, now 82 years old, who'd remarked, "I live so much in my head," and I'd amened him aloud. Honey, me too. The racket in my head drowns out the noise in my house sometimes, as I simultaneously plan my garden beds, the next three meals for everyone, and repetitively think ahead regarding each coming day.

Several potential placements have deemed Jose too aggressive for their facilities, even with their lock-down capabilities and a 24-7 staff of many.

Yet the program director of DJJ intones, "He must come home," as his or her hands are sadly tied by budget constraints, but I double dawg guarantee you, I'd be a dead martyr if he were to come home, and if I were to enforce any rule upon him, even any dumb rule such as 'no hitting others,' or even, 'time for bed now,' as this manboy is large, unremorseful and quite evidently disturbed.

Like a search and rescue dog can sniff out human life buried beneath rubble, so too can I catch the aroma in the air of an emotionally disturbed individual who stands out so obviously in deep contrast to normally reasoning individuals, who runs counter to logic, and who bounds uphill against rationality.

Honey, I have too much experience in this aspect of life.

Some seven or eight years ago, I had four first graders, now finishing up their last year of middle school, yesterday I had to go to the high school to pick up CW and Chuy from weight training that the upcoming ninth graders participate in under direction of their future football coach. CW was born here, these years have flown, and I had a catch in my heart watching him amble out amongst older kids.

Daniel had a beautiful write-up in the local paper yesterday, they'd interviewed both him and Yolie, my preferred fly-under-the-radar situation, yet Daniel had been quoted, "Mama raised us right, I've always wanted to make her proud."

And he always has done so.

I'm sure if our local sheriff reads this, he's gotta wonder what happened to some of my other kids who can't obey simple laws. Again I don't take either the credit or the blame, I'm just the mama, trying against a lot of odds.

Daniel beat his odds.

Sarah'd provided this article and I love this quote, "Farming without a financial motive is gardening.

I've often mumbled to myself and out loud, "I should've just gone and established an orphanage in Haiti," versus the thankless job of parenting my traumatized children, but the events of this week have shamed me into such pure gratitude that I'm here with my children, spoiled rotten by the world's standards, as I look appalled upon the news reports leaving Haiti this week. May God be with them.

And Sarah blogged.

Fight Differences

A very large industrial metal kitchen sink does the job for sure, but it's noisy with the water running, and me banging and clanging the pots and pans around, the kitchen is open to the living room, dining room and family room, and even the hallway leading to the most used door, which goes into the garage, not an inviting entrance way, but it's the best I can do right now, and my line of sight supervision is immense.

Over the clamor of me doing dishes, I heard frantic screams calling my name from the first bedroom on the right, and time suspended itself into immediate cartoonish slow motion, it so then seemed.

I sloooooowly dried my hands on my shirt, spun around while doing so, heard myself yell for Chuy three times, while leaping over four dogs, and jumping the ten steps to that room in probably less than three seconds, but it seemed, in my mind, to take forever, because I was afraid of what I'd encounter in there.

If the screaming was any indication of the level of turmoil, this was gonna stink.

I forgot about my delicate bones, forgot the warning from the physician to stay out of fracas and mayhem, and I slammed myself into the middle of a very large, angry fight between JoJo and Allen, two birth brothers who are both extremely violent when furious, often taking it out on each other. Somehow Mayra was behind Allen, tackling him down, a mean girl with a purpose for once, while Martin had subdued JoJo, sorta.

JoJo was so pissed off he nearly started another fight with Chuy, of all people, but somehow I got that fire put out, and kicked the rest of the family out of the room, knowing this would take some time to get to the bottom of, as the combatants were ferociously livid, boiling over, nearly demented in their wrath.

This had been coming all week, brewing, simmering, and hot spots had been flaming up. The school had called me, had put JoJo in ISS and he'd come home that afternoon, knowing I already knew what was going on, knowing the school constantly updates me, as if I were still employed there in the media center.

It honestly took me another hour with Mayra, Allen and JoJo boo-hooing in heart-wrenching, scalding emotional distress, because even at 16, 14 and 12, this is what one gets in the adoption of older children. Crying is good, a behavior I greatly prefer over fist-fighting. The very deep inner grief at being abandoned, or even at the perception, the reality is laden with facts, with missed visits from birth parents, court dates, foster homes, shelters and other trauma which only results in sad, fuming children who will take it out on the clueless adoptive parents, like me, if they were fortunate enough to ever get adopted...the numbers are so against them.

A reader, Jean, had sent me a joke to cheer me up after my truck crying incident, and somehow I remembered it, and told it to the three of them after they'd calmed down. JoJo laughed maniacally, which is not always a good thing, but in this case it truly broke the heavy, onerous tension.

I can't even go into his despair, can't break his confidence here, but it's all very typical considering his issues. I'm gonna seek some professional advice this morning, running to Dr. Mandy whose educated objectivity is balanced with her knowledge of the sibling interactions within our family. She can always get to the core, to put her finger on the real issue, she helps me see past the muddle of the immediate emotions manifested in fighting, lashing out or raging.

Paloma was kinda subdued by her court experience that day. "Do you want to be locked up? To leave your family?" the judge had asked her.

A wary, indecisive Paloma answered an unconvincing, "No," as the judge continued to point out that five police calls to the school in 12 months doesn't equal up to a reasonable child situation. She wrote an order that may, or may not, help in my lengthy quest for residential psychiatric help.

Pepe was next, and truly I am frightened of him, he was in shackles, and there were two deputies in the room, but I still struggled to control my trembling. Pepe alternated between putting on a show for the judge, with cracks in his arguments, claiming he was in 10th grade, as if he'd skipped a grade? Passed over Sabrina who's in 9th? I don't think so, but I kept quiet, knowing it didn't really matter, and that the true facts would only infuriate him. It was with great relief when it was over. He'll be going to another placement, he will not live with us.

What's the difference between yesterday's fist fight, and when Pepe'd attacked Chuy that last time? JoJo and Allen wrestle constantly, it usually doesn't erupt into what I saw yesterday, and niether of them took nor gave a pounding. There was not even any hitting, they were tussling mightily, slamming each other into the walls, whereas Pepe'd viciously attacked Chuy with a balled up fist, angrily slugging him in the head and the face, out-weighing him, and with unbelievable little grasp of normal emotions, versus JoJo and Allen's complete emotional immaturity, two toddlers in action. There's a HUGE difference. My gut, with its 20 years experience in this field of parenting traumatized children, knows.

So as I stayed in JoJo's room, helping him to work on getting a grip, one eye on my watch surreptitiously, knowing the rest of the teenagers wanted to get to Youth Group at church, knowing my kitchen was trashed by supper's demands, and that the others were getting restless with me in a room where there'd been a fight. I prayed my usual, "Thy Will be done,' under my breath, about a thousand times, and JoJo was eventually calm enough to accompany me as I drove everyone, but I was reluctant to allow him out of my sight, fortunately he was emotionally dependent upon my approval at the moment and was as clingy as Saran Wrap. Allen had sobbed for an hour, laying on the bed, while JoJo and I'd sat together in a Lazy Boy recliner in their room.

Nights like these take everything out of everyone. We were whooped as a family, total silence, and everyone quickly fell asleep, due to emotional exhaustion by 9:15, even I'd collapsed totally in a heap at nearly the same time, thankful for door alarms and the meds that some of my children are on each day. We'd even had another one of the therapist team for Jonathan, a large, tall young man with OTP experience, but he'd left our house some 30 minutes before the fight had started, telling me that the movie star-looking therapist was leaving their team this week for greener pastures.

Like we've not dealt with turnover?

I'm thankful though for the stability that Dr. Mandy provides. She's not been mentioned lately, as she'd been out on maternity leave, now back and on schedule, at the top of her game, but with a very different perspective now that she's a parent. If nothing else, I know that the birth of her son will be even more treasured by her, as she's had some bizarre and jolting years as a child therapist to traumatized children who've not had what she's so totally giving as a parent. She gets it.

Oh My Aunt Fanny

Daniel, 24, and Marcela, 28

As Pat M taught me to think about this crybaby pulling up her big girl panties and going forward...did I mangle the statement? At any rate as I was desultorily washing the thousands of dishes that only our family can create when I cook french toast for supper, my Jack who'd been to Grandma's side of the house talking with Grandpa, came home and put my life in perspective.

He's only nine years old, but bonded, smart and nurtured since birth, "Haiti had a 7.0 earthquake," he broadcast to me, my personal Fox News channel.

"Really? Are you sure? That's pretty significant."

He turned on the living room TV to prove his point, and I, a Methodist Preacher's Kid, immediately felt crushing waves of guilt roll over me for my crybabyness of the early afternoon. I'm also glad I'm not Mark Mcguire. I hate it for him.

I watched Hoarders and Intervention late into the night, very glad that I don't hoard, drink nor do drugs. I curled up with a book, an insomniac's companion, glad I was in a warm house, looking forward to Springtime, and I truly worked on my head, trying to regain motivation and to move forward, knowing I have a ton of responsibility, along with the bleakness of Winter, and the ridiculousness of disturbances. JoJo too has been a trying handful lately.

I'd not exploded at the Sear's Repairman yesterday, mumbling to myself my usual, 'Thy Will be done,' non-stop prayer 24-7, all day long, every single day, as it calms me and reminds me who's ultimately in charge.

When I'd been crying in my truck, a friend, a former rec soccer coach to a good number of my children, had Facebooked me with yesterday's UGA picture of Daniel's commissioning from the staff and faculty newspaper, silently reminding me to be grateful both for a Blackberry and for Daniel. It's the little things...the encouraging message I so needed at the moment.

Today I have court for both Jose and Paloma. Jose who'd reoffended after the program director at DJJ wanted to send him home. There's a security videotape of him jumping on a counselor's back, something he denies doing. I'm afraid DJJ has no options due to funding, but there's absolutely no way on God's green earth will I ever allow him to step foot in my home and victimize anyone else.

I remembered Constituent Services in the Lieutenant Governor's Office, only because a DFACS man had also called and reminded me it might be an option, as they (DFACS) have been trying to help me keep my family safe.

A predictably young staffer answered the phone, took notes, and we'll see if this helps, but I know if I want God to open doors, I need to do my part as well.

I've been to court numerous times with juveniles who've broken laws, and the fact that little is done to them only cements their feelings of being untouchable, getting away with whatever they wanna do.

Paloma's counselor was here in the afternoon, nearly as befuddled and frustrated as me. Talk therapy isn't gonna effect a major turnaround on a very disturbed young lady, and we both know it, she and I, the adults with college degrees who are seemingly being outsmarted by a severely emotionally messed-up kid.

Several of y'all's comments spoke to me, the fact that Pat M and I have to remind ourselves that we're darn good parents jolted me. It's an uphill, often bitter fight against such extreme irrational behaviors that we can get so lost, drowning in the morass. Another 'you hold in so much' gave me a chuckle, as I feel I barf so much bitterness out here on these pages, but as I thought about it, yeah, I really do hold some 90% inside me, and that's probably not good.

My crying fit helped me yesterday, although I'm now embarrassed that both Dr. Mandy and Dr. G saw me like that, as I prefer my mask of strength, my Superwoman cloak of determination versus my swole up eyes of such a deep case of fed-up yesterday.

Oh well, I'm human...something so many of my children forget.

"Why were you crying?" an observant Sabrina later asked me, taking note of my very red eyes and my waterproof eye make-up from Sunday gone alarmingly sideways.

"I'm just frustrated," I replied, not one to confide in teenagers. Duh.

"I'm sorry," she immediately spoke up.

"You don't have to be sorry. I'm right proud of you," I reassured her, while looking like a bug-eyed freak, exaggeratedly at the back of someone else's head who was stalking through the kitchen as I cooked.

I sighed deeply, and reached way down inside my banged-up guts to pull on my trusty inner strength that'll surely see me through all these days.

Another deep sigh...time to go wake everyone up...