Reclusiveness Equals Energy

I don't know how folks can afford bagged cow manure, it's about five bucks a bag at Lowes, nor how there's a line item for fashion in a family budget. I don't comprehend the availability of excess income, enough to make new car payments, nor does budgeting for restaurant meals ever seem feasible, but my own very narrow view only revolves around the finances of a single mom of 39. Not a lot is ever possible, and I'm very OK with that.

Back to the manure, I'm very grateful for the opportunity to run to a nearby stable and haul off their excess. A win-win situation for both the owner and myself. We loaded five more truckloads onto Grandma's garden area, on top of the three last time, and she easily needs two more just for her fruit and vegetable areas. It's not likely I'll get to her flower gardens as I still need to manure my own many garden beds.

Since we garden so differently, and so passionately, we've never thought to pool our time, and to work together, it'd be much as two chefs in one kitchen. We're both too strong-minded for that, we don't compete, we both get joy in the other's successes, but gardening is solitary and personal, at least to the two of us.

This year I hope to only finish manuring the food areas, the flowers'll wait until next year. I need more wood chips everywhere, again I'm happy to pay by the truckload, rather than by the economically impossible bag route of procurement.

I busted outside happily as soon as it hit 43 degrees yelling, "The work'll warm us up," so excitedly that even JoJo and Allen, two very lazy ones, came with me for the first three loads. They're both athletic and very strong, but physical work usually sends them both jumping back into bed in response. They proved me wrong for once.

Again a quiet day, Sabrina's boyfriend came by to play cards with the kids last night, no outbursts anywhere, other than Tony continuing to rudely provoke folks. Slowly everyone's been learning to just walk away, to not feed in to it, which is extremely difficult, as his button pushing abilities are extraordinarily personally vicious, ugly and hateful. If he doesn't change this behavior - and it's not looking likely, as it has seemed to blossom even uglier over the years - his adult life will stink.

"How can you stand him?" my two other 8th graders have been asked, after Tony's been hateful to them.

My blood pressure is responding right now, even as I write all this, just thinking about how awful he can be to other humans, it's absolutely shocking.

I'm finding myself unable to resist the seduction of Burpee catalog's beautiful pages. I shouldn't even have looked, preferring to snobbishly shun hybrids, but dang o dang o, there's a zinnia I might not be able to resist.

I believe I took a bye over the holidays - checked out physically and emotionally, unable to deal with the festivities this year. I've carried such huge emotional loads for so many, many years. I don't break, I've cracked a little however, burrowing deeply into my rabbit warren here, ignoring humans, and hopping around with a little too much paranoia, conveniently leaving my cell phone upstairs constantly, and forgetting it for hours, also noticing again my crackly electro magnetic field is affecting it again.

My reclusive nature taking over, as I get older I find it so blessedly calming to me. The crowd scene at Disney was immense, I do not ever feel energized by all that, I restore and recharge myself best when left alone.

Standing on the two beaches, one was Daytona, the other just slightly north of St. Augustine, felt wonderful to me. CW asking me, "Why do you like these lonely remote beaches?" The second beach was very much so, and I exhilaratedly sucked in the salty sea air, while noticing that the cool sand under my bare feet felt magnificent. "I'd rather see people," CW explained, as if I were a moron, or at best, a hermit.

Like Kryptonite, the crowds force my energy to seep away, like I'm bleeding to death from my soul outward.

But on quiet beaches, in gardens, by streams and rivers, and in the woods, I regain my strength.

I need this inner strength in order to face the oppositionalism, the challenges, the negative emotions that flow towards me from some grown kids who are still stuck in their arrested development mentality, where they were once badly broken by the failings of the system, or by the perceived abandonment by their birth parents, or by the very real abuse and neglect they've suffered. It's easier to deal with this in children, than in grown folks, who insist upon self-destructive tendencies, not ever learning from arrest, jail time, probation, nor court dates and lawyer fees.

Dear Lord, grant me the serenity I so deeply need, the grace with which to deal with people, and the strength each day to get up, and to do it again and again and again.

I can do this.

Especially today when it's gonna be 62 degrees preceding a rain event that always makes me happy, knowing it's drenching the manure, feeding the soil microbes and all the earthworms, nourishing my perennials, and restoring my well water that I drink from each day, literally and figuratively.

The Real Dirt on Farmer John

While waiting on the early morning temperatues to rise, I just watched this, totally transfixed and inspired. What an awesome film.

End of the Year Nothings

At my age, 50 seems the magical number. When the temperature hits 50 degrees, I feel compelled to go outside and enjoy it. The few days in Florida, while not warm enough, were still a nice interlude for me. I'd stood on the shore in Daytona, deeply inhaling and exhaling, feeling the need to cleanse my lungs from perceived stagnation.

Late yesterday afternoon, 53 degrees, I worked steadily in the rear of The Big Back Garden, still pulling up and composting last year's plants, whiffs of damp earth making me swoon, the promise of springtime evermore thrilling me.

In just another month, I'll have my early daffodils blooming and new cole crop seeds in the ground. My hens were clucking happily, glad for the company, chickens are sociable, and to have not had humans outside for the last month must've seemed odd to them.

My entire family has been subdued now for a couple of months, Grandpa left a gaping hole around here, I'm not yet back up to speed, but am pushing myself harder.

I'd sauteed two quarts of bell peppers from last summer's garden, garlic scapes still pulled out of the ground at the moment, and store-bought onions in a cast iron black skillet, drawing all the kids to the kitchen with the fragrance, pouring it over whole wheat pasta, with our usual gobs of Fire Hot Pepper Sauce, sea salt, and my kids grate pepper jack cheese over everything.

I'd stopped at a country grocery store, in middle Georgia yesterday, returning from Macon, momentarily craving hoop cheese, which we used generously at supper last night, tomatoes as well from the harvest of last year. Grandma's been eating with us at supper.

Our house is designed, a term I use loosely, as we've added on three times over the years, with two kitchens, giving the grandparents their own territory, but lately Grandma's been joining us for dinners.

I've noticed we've all been a beat off, or so. I've rarely made it up the driveway to even unlock the front gate since we haven't had to be at school, or anywhere. I feel right unsociable, I know I've been emotionally withdrawn for awhile.

The kids have been quieter than usual for months now, everyone's been quietly grieving, I suppose. An 80 year old man dying is the normal course of events, nothing tragic here at all, only the missed presence of someone, the finality of it still hard to grasp, how much more so for my mom?

And here, early in the morning as I type, I see Scotty eating a big plate of leftovers for breakfast. Fire Hot this early in the morning? I'm impressed.

I, however have Sarah's homemade granola to enjoy this morning.

Paloma's 14th Birthday

On today, Paloma's 14th birthday, seven kids joined me in driving the 200 mile round trip to take gifts to her. She's pictured with her baby brother, Jonathan, he of Very Big Feet, and now almost 13 years old, both involved with DJJ, on probation, as have been 2 out of 3 other birth brothers. Not great numbers here.

Her well-behaved birth brother, Chuy, balked, not wanting to ride in the van after our Florida trip, so Grandma stayed home with the rest of the teenagers, who glued on to their video games and computers hardly noticed we left. "Back already?" they asked me, six hours later.

We met with a hyper Paloma in a conference room, Sabrina later telling me, "That reminded me of when we used to have family visits with my birth mom at DFACS."

Sabrina never talks of her past, never ever. An ebullient teenager, she prefers to focus ahead, she's a very good student and a high school cheerleader. We still call her Memaw, but, in public, I try and refrain, choosing Sabrina then.

"Was that where you had your final good-bye visit with your mom?" I asked her.

"Well, yeah, but she never showed up," Sabrina explained, fairly blase on the surface, but you know that's gotta hurt still.

It makes me furious. Her sibling group of four are all right good kids, one with a higher level of behavior care, a Level Three if I remember correctly, but nothing like some of my other troubled children, overall I'd call this group excellent.

Who wouldn't want to parent them?

I know that CPS furnished their birth mom with an apartment, a washer and a dryer, transportation, counseling services, and money and groceries, indeed they bent over backwards trying to help this mother be a parent. Sabrina backs up the stories I'd read in their case files. Their birth mother had no diagnosed issues, apparently just preferring to party...and I'll never comprehend her choice.

Paloma wrote, and read aloud, a letter of apology to our family, how she wants to try harder to be a better person. I spoke with her very wonderful therapist, my fear is that there's too much emphasis on a child to change, who just can't do so, what with the severity. This isn't a choice, it's an illness.

She's a pretty, pretty young girl with an overdose of mental health issues, ultimately it's just so sad. Her birth mother was violent, murderous, substance abusing and angry, likely mentally ill as well, three of the five children have been labeled bipolar, a fourth is an offender - to put it mildly - and the fifth, my handsome 15 year old Chuy is working on his anger, his standoffishness, and his fear of attachment to me. Trouble is, he wants to be like Daniel, and my Daniel is super attached to me. Now there's a hurdle for Chuy to leap.

I rewarded my own good behavior - my willingness to sit kind of still for the long ride - with a stop at a Macon Starbucks for coffee grinds for my gardens, I treated the kids to a fast food joint, and Nando and Tabby barfed in the van as a result.

The three Yorkies insisted on a road trip, Pudding, Tia, and Princess in her pink wool coat, sitting with Lily, and farting merrily along. "Dang, Lily, what'd you feed those dogs?" I asked, while gagging.

I've spent eight years trying to charm Mr. Cool. "I do love you, I just don't wanna hafta tell you that," has been the most affectionate response I've gotten in return from Chuy, pictured on Daytona Beach, Christmas Day, after all these years.

Hey, it's good enough for me.

I ain't needy.

Knowing What They're Talking About

Flipping channels last night, I overheard a famous wife say on an entertainment show interview that she had four nannies for her two children, rotating the nannies so they didn't burn out.

I immediately became very, very jealous.

She has a husband and FOUR nannies for two children?

Do the math.

Me and 39.

Of course my devotional today rebuked me, as it always does, when I get out of line mentally with thoughts of envy or strife.

And truly, if given the choice, which'll never happen, I'd still choose my own life, but for just a minute I allowed myself the fantasy of someone helping out around here.

Like that wouldn't triangulate everything?

There really is nothing on TV, except for the Weather Channel, and HGTV, to watch here at the end of December.

Both Yolie and Sarah told me they skipped all the italicized info on mental issues yesterday on my blog, tired of living through it, not wanting to revisit it, lets move on, both of them traumatized even by the memories of what all we'd endured then, bruises up my arms, my blood pressure through the roof, police intervention, court cases, fear and revulsion.

So we had a calm day, Hazel and Mae cute beyond measure, glad to see each other, everyone playing, no major tussles anywhere.

I made a pot of lentils. We're slap flat broke til midnight on New Years Eve when my retirement check hits the bank, which reminds me I nearly jumped the counter to hug the handsome man who'd told me I couldn't possibly be old enough for the senior citizen discount at the hotel in Florida.

I should've just showed him my stretch marked belly or my one busted leg vein. I sure can paint a pretty picture, right? Dude, it's been some hard living that didn't involve substance abuse on my part, no partying, just a lotta work and an overdose of stress.

Some of y'all took issue yesterday to my sentence, where I mentioned one of my children should've never been put into a family. I stand by that thought, knowing what all happened here.

I have another post percolating about never adopting anyone older than your birth children, please listen to your caseworker if you're advised not to adopt a particular child, they're plenty of others that need families. I'm not positive that when one has birth children, the adoption of older children from the foster care system isn't necessarily a great idea.

I still deeply wish I'd waited just four more years until Sarah was in college. She was sneered at, mistreated, ignored, treated rudely, stolen from, and subjected to all the other immature and crazily envious actions that could've been taken against her over the years. Yet some, most noticeably Daniel and Yolie, treated her beautifully, as did others, like Gina and Jesse. But man oh man, has she ever, like me, nowadays put up a huge emotional protective wall around her heart and soul.

Now she and I are as hurt and as sad as the children once were many years ago, we've absorbed it all, and been traumatized as well. Nothing that time won't cure though, we looked at seed catalogs, giggling together the other day over this year's upcoming garden beds.

Find another caseworker if you don't fully trust yours 100%. I trusted mine, and still do, a million percent, and was never led wrong as I searched out massive help and resources. I wouldn't be still standing without her brilliance, her knowledge and input. They know what they're talking about, lemme tell ya.

IEDs

"It looked brown and depressing, it tasted ersatz, with everything trying to pretend to be meat," from The Tenth Muse by Judith Jones, a book I'd stuck on the shelf from Sarah, and finally got around to reading yesterday. She, Sarah that is, has opened my eyes up to an entire genre of reading material that I'd probably not ever have found on my own.

After nearly a week of improvisation in the form of road food, take-out bleech, and other creative means of feeding a large family for little, it was with not just a little bit of relief that I fired up my cast iron black skillet yesterday, thinking of that one line from the book.

I never have tried to make my food appear to be meat, as the sole reason for my original vegetarianism was the fact that I think meat is gross, it visually resembles turds to me.

Black beans and brown rice, smothered with hot pepper cheese, avocados, Sea Salt, Fire Hot Pepper Sauce, and sour cream, on top of lightly browned corn tortillas is heavenly. I'm stuffed after four of them, Chuy holds the record at 23 one evening, but, Honey, the point is, that's living.

I had a great time in Florida, if I didn't live in Georgia, I'd have chosen Florida for the warmth and tropical vegetation.

I'm planning a summer jaunt already in my mind.

But in the meantime, there's real life to contend with each day. The kids have been surprisingly pleasant overall, little to no issues exploding. I'd watched that NG special on the warrior gene the other night, found it fascinating, especially for us adoptive moms, where genetics, nature, is nowadays found to be clashing with the nurture part.

Well, Duh.

They also spoke of impulse aggression which is a facet I find most annoying, fearful even for their future when I'm not around to monitor the behaviors. Even as I type in the living room, our very open kitchen just two feet away, and can become a battleground in an instant.

From Psychiatry Online:

Impulsive aggression, as opposed to planned aggression, can take many forms in children and adolescents—irritability, temper tantrums, punching a sibling, striking another youngster or teacher. And for some time now, it has been of growing concern to Peter Jensen, M.D., a professor of child psychiatry at Columbia University.

It started when he was associate director of child and adolescent research at the National Institute of Mental Health from 1989 to 2000, he told Psychiatric News recently. He became convinced, after often hearing from clinicians, families, and researchers, that severe impulsive aggression was a problem for youngsters with a number of DSM illnesses, not just with conduct disorder. He also observed that impulsive aggression often landed young people in inpatient, juvenile-justice, or residential-treatment settings. And he knew that there were no approved medical treatments for impulsive aggression in youth and that drug companies expressed little interest in developing medications for it.

And when we've had these moments, I'm always asked, "Well, what triggered it?" as I stand bewildered and stunned by the violent outburst.

It's still a learning experience, the learning curve around here similar to Test Track at Epcot, my stomach feels the same certainly.

I see this aggressive impulsivity as fairly severe in several of the sibling groups, nearly identical amongst siblings. Various birth parents, amongst my different sibling groups here, have long case histories of documented violence, resulting in murder in one family. That I can understand this issue still doesn't leave me any options for improving it.

In some lucid moments, some of my kids can readily admit that this may be a problem for them, yet in those moments after an outburst, they'll tell you (later in review) that there was no way to have stopped this explosion.

Another grown kid of mine, now in prison, was diagnosed with Intermittent Explosive Disorder, which would've been bad enough, but he also had severe mental illnesses as well. As I now look back from my relatively safe perch, I'd venture to say children like him should have NEVER been placed in adoptive families.

Nowadays, it's not so much that I'm anti-social, I just need, crave, and seek long bouts of silence. Reclusiveness appeals greatly to me. I'm severely emotionally battered, not just by some of the children who've been so horrifically mentally disturbed, but also by professionals at times who've failed to comprehend the severity of what I've been living with for too many years.

Family safety is my priority, and, finally, at least for a few of the dangerous ones, I've found some semblance of sanity, some level of safety, yet I know every step ahead of me will still be a battle for a few more years.

We could'nt have taken this Florida trip with Paloma, I know because I've tried over the years. They can't help how they act, even raging while heavily medicated, not because it's fun for them, but because they can't help it. They need high levels of psychiatric maintenance, and it's grossly unfair to think they can survive without it...or that anyone else can maintain these volatile, often deadly, behaviors.

Now that only one child in my home is considered severe, he's still manageable, the impulsive aggression seems so easy in comparison to the other issues we've survived.

In the meantime, I read, I learn, I breathe deeply and repeat comforting Bible verses in my head, knowing some folks are playing with very little sand in their pail, dealing with it, and seeking solutions.

Six Dollars

Gail Vaz-Oxlade impresses the poo outta me. She's recently given this example:

“So, you’re standing in a bookstore looking at a book that costs $12. The woman beside you says, ‘That book's on sale a ten-minute walk from here for six bucks.’ Do you walk the ten minutes to save $6?

She said, resoundingly, “Yes.”

So then I said, “You’re looking at big-screen TVs. The sticker says $999. The guy beside you says, ‘That TV is on sale a ten-minute walk from here for $993.’ Do you walk the ten minutes to save $6?

She says, unequivocally, “No.”

Her husband looks at her like she’s just pooped in public. I smile.

“Why not?” asked I. “It’s the same $6.

I'd wandered all around Disney World thinking about that particular six dollars, watching people buy exorbitantly expensive fountain drinks, and buy stuff that I'm certain they'll soon discard. I should know, I've seen it all at yard sales. All the Disney World attractions empty their lines via each gift shop, so you're immediately bombarded with merchandise and flashy advertisements that lure folks in with the implied promise of 'buy this and you'll be cool and happy.'

My kids know better than to ask me to buy this junk, we're fortunate enough to have just been able to afford the trip. It took a ton of $6 savings all year long.

And get this, we had just as much fun at the beach where it was all free. If I didn't have children, I'd have no interest in amusement parks as I can amuse myself enough, without all the motion sickness, crowds, and loud noises being involved.

And in reading Vaz-Oxlade's blog today, I appreciated this thought: If you really want the car you just bought, then why do you want another one in a year or two? And if you really want those black shoes you had to have, why do you now want another pair of black shoes? Ditto that house you bought just a few years ago that’s just not cutting it anymore because it’s a little worn and just not big enough. It is as if as soon as we acquire something we want, we no longer want it. We want something else.

Dang, she's so on target.

Stuff never makes one happy, it just dumps crushing debt on a person, which then increases the original unhappiness that they didn't find with the purchase that they thought they wanted.

So where is happiness?

I'd extrapolate that it comes from freedom. Freedom from debt, freedom from the pressure of trying to keep up with the Joneses, freedom in knowing who you are, and where you are going in life, the freedom to do as you'd like, without the fear and the thought of having to maintain all the possessions that didn't make you happy anyway.

Freedom thoughts coming from a mom of 39 children? How free can that be?

Read the above paragraph again. I do have that freedom, that inner freedom.

Maybe I was just blessed to have been born in 1954, coming of age in the times when materialism was seen as middle class bourgeoisie, the counter culture was in full swing, and a light bulb went off in my head, maybe it was later when my mother remarked to one of her own many siblings that "Cindy sure does live beneath her means," and it took me awhile to decide if she was complimenting me, or not.

Maybe it's genetic, as my siblings, and most of my extended family, as in aunts and uncles, all lived with no extravagance.

Whatever.

It has allowed me the freedom to adopt the other 38 children, to put quite a few through college already, and to face my golden years without a big ole nest egg, since what all I have has already been spent on my family over the years, peeling everything away from me, leaving me facing the second half of my life with my spading fork and a hand rake, still feeling inwardly secure about it all.

I DVR her show, Til Debt Do Us Part, she's a hoot, and I love her world-changing aspect of teaching folks to live well within their means. I listened to all my Dave Ramsey podcasts as I drove to Florida, as well as catching up on David Cooper's sermons.

He's always been a fan of Viktor Frankl , a neurologist, psychiatrist and author, about having a purpose in life, finding meaning, and while I've obviously railed here against social injustice and the terrible aftermath of trauma, the illogic world in which I reside, and the interminable stultifying hassles, I do have purpose, my children have given that gift to me, even though it's often felt so overwhelmingly pointless. I walk by faith, not by feelings.

The bigger picture involves my faith and my calling to this area.

Frankl states: According to LTEA, (Logotherapy/Existential Analysis) humans are not fully subject to conditions but are basically free to decide and capable of taking their stance towards internal (psychological) and external (biological and social) conditions. Freedom is here defined as the space of shaping one's own life within the limits of the given possibilities. This freedom derives from the spiritual dimension of the person, which is understood as the essentially human realm, over and above the dimensions of body and of psyche. As spiritual persons, humans are not just reacting organisms but autonomous beings capable of actively shaping their lives.

Although it may appear I'm trapped by the demands of all these family members, in reality, I have a great deal of freedom, specifically in my choice to view the meaning of my life via these choices that, even to me, sometimes can seem prison-like.

And honestly, I just spent the last few minutes trying to convince a disbelieving JoJo that there wasn't school today. He'd showered and was getting ready when Nando busted out laughing at him.

Some of my once feral kids are still learning the sequence of seasons, how to tell time, figures of speech, indeed I had to recently explain that the concept, "it's not even remotely possible," doesn't involve the TV remote, or about gas mileage in the van versus my truck, why Disney world has a ten thousand percent markup, yada yada yada, as if they were all sprung upon me, full grown in their bodies, but with zero imprint in their minds of a positive adult interaction example ever.

"Listen to the answers to your questions," I'd recently exasperatedly blurted. "I already answered that."

"I didn't hear you," they'll tell me, deeply believing they're correct in this, when the reality is that they did not listen.

Deep sigh.

But they weren't listening to that either.

How in the world can I teach them what they need to know?

"OK y'all, let's simplify this," I'll try again.

"Make me proud," which they know just involves simply succeeding in something that they like and that they chose. I don't demand physicists nor brain surgeons.

"Live beneath your means," I've droned on and on and on, for years and years and years.

"Obey the laws," knowing I've explained the natural consequences of not doing so.

Really folks, how hard can this be?

"No JoJo," I'll repeat for the millionth time, "I've never played a video game, and I don't wanna ever play. There's too much more I need to read, learn and comprehend, too much to do that interests me, really that fascinates me," I'll try and stress in the face of his big-eyed disbelief that there's anything more fun than a mind-numbing, boring-to-me X Box contraption.

I'm climbing uphill again, nailing jello to the wall, getting my exercise.

Peppermint Bark

Sarah blogged.

Thankfully she'd squirreled some away for both Grandma, and for me.

Money, money, money

I am constantly explaining to my children that it's what you don't spend that adds up. Not buying a Starbucks latte, or a six-pack of canned sodas, or cigarettes, etc, but rather investing it all, even in minimal bearing savings accounts adds up to mongo money eventually.

"Why would we wanna end up with money?" I've been asked. "I'd rather have the stuff that money buys."

"And be broke?" I'll ask incredulously, dismissed again by those who know so little about the real world.

Grown kids eventually call me and concede, maybe they shoulda done a few things differently, especially when they notice my other grown kids doing so much better than them. Some of my grown kids are doing amazingly well.

"It's just 50 cents," I was recently told by a kid who'd plunked two quarters in some dumb gumball machine.

"It adds up," I remind them, often showing them the variety of financial calculators on the web.

I just called a family meeting, tallying this month's expenses, plus yearly ones, and then monthly averages, versus what I'd either planned originally, or been snowbagged by later. Life happens, you better be prepared. It's been a tough year.

Our land line is $495 a year. Do we still really need it? Yeah, I guess so, since the kids don't have cell phones. I'm gonna put a block on collect calls from jail.

I was surprised at the automobile repair line item total, but then again my truck's now 13 and the van's 7 years old, repairs are still way cheaper than monthly payments on a vehicle.

We spent very, very little on shoes and clothes for the entire year, yet my kids dress beautifully, thanks to donated bags, Goodwill, and yard sales. Their closets and bureau drawers are full of name brand stuff.

Groceries again kicked our butts - a major expense always. We're all very big eaters.

The power bill averaged $550 a month. Ouch, but it's a big house, and also we have a big pool pump, can you imagine if we used our AC a lot? This is why we don't do so.

Our miscellaneous category went down in response to my unwillingness to buy stuff that we simply don't need.

Overall I was pretty pleased with everything, the kids were fairly amazed that we can even make it all happen, but it takes a huge amount of self-discipline, and I'm always finding ways I hope to do better.

This ain't easy...

Seriously?

Daytona Beach - What's Not To Love?

As usual, if I'm out of town, I find it best to not blog about it, knowing that even a locked gate and an alarm system wouldn't necessarily deter those from trying to get in and take what we really don't even own in the first place.

Home now, creeping in before midnight last night, snow falling rapidly, big heavy wet flakes that had me on edge. Oh Dear Lord, I'd prayed silently, please keep our power on at home.

Now we're snowed in, roads are impassable, church cancelled this morning, and since I've been gone since the middle of last week, we need milk and bread - too bad though. I'm afraid to check and see if we have enough toilet paper. I generally overstock, hating to go to town anyway, hoping to eliminate trips by having enough on hand.

We'd hit Daytona Beach yesterday, 72 beautiful degrees - I was barefeet and happy - inhaling the salt air, soaking up the sun, my brief interlude out of winter, hope it holds me for a month or so. We went on to St Augustine Beach by mid-afternoon, I reluctantly drug the kids away, knowing I had a snow event to face, plus the 8 hour drive still to go from there.

Interstates bore me, I hit 441, a state highway, having it all to myself, as bad weather and Christmas night celebrations kept everyone off the roads, nothing was open though, we settled on gas station trail mix for super, not the highest quality, but what the hey, we'd been to the beach.

Shockingly, an hour of so south of home, we hit snow falling, a crapload of it. Not arriving home until nearly midnight, my dirt road was snow covered and we crept up the hill to the house to meet the dogs Sarah's been tending top in our absence. The mischievous one, Shadow, had torn open and eaten the huge batch of granola Sarah'd labored over, I nearly cried.

I'd hoped we could've spent a night at the beach, but I'd traveled with a debit card, not a credit card, so I'd not be tempted to overspend. I don't wanna face a broke January and I'd planned so minutely carefully, the only thing I'd failed to consider was that driving home on Christmas Day meant nothing was open, and I should've thought ahead and made sandwiches.

Oops.

Now I have piles of dirty laundry to go tend to all day long.

Marry Christmas Mom

Always partial to palms, I can't explain it, it just the way my heart turns to happiness at the sight of them, and makes dream plans in my head regarding palmettos and agaves in my future gardens, it's with great admiration that I wandered through Epcot and Disneyworld this week.

The greenhouses at The Land fascinate me. Hydroponics at its best, the trellising systems are amazing, vastly increasing production, and the way to go for folks with small spaces.

A little annoyed by the throngs of people, so much of a crowd scene that by ten last night, even my kids had had enough, of course they'd been at it for more'n 12 hours already, "OK, mom, we're done," and my teenagers, the same ones who get regularly bus left at home, managed to make their own way through to the monorail, without mama, to a mongo parking lot to meet me there at the trams, knowing I'd already been gone, taking Grandma and the little kids back to the hotel.

"We did it!" they screamed happily at me, hugging me tightly like they hadn't seen me in years, JoJo acting the fool as usual, chumping some elderly man on the monorail into holding his hand, "I'm scared," he'd whimpered with his big brown eyes, while his brothers and sisters rolled their eyes, "We're telling mom you're acting stupid," they promised.

Like that'd stop him?

Yep, my nearly 81 year old mother's made the trip, driving her car about an hour ahead of my van, which she'll now use to get to Tallahassee to see my brother, Jimbo, along with Jack, who'll keep her company for another day or so.

Grandma didn't do the Space Mountain, Thunder Mountain, nor Splash Mountain, but she walked everywhere and had fun. A pretty lady named Lisa loaned me her extra poncho for the Splash Mountain ride, her daughter, Lila, accompanying Tabby, as we all got happily drenched. We talked for a few minutes, Lisa telling me she was involved in adoption, but quietly mysteriously so, and even though I'm Southern and nosey, I didn't pry for once, but I was itchily curious about her reticence.

I'd allowed my teenagers, which is all but Tabby, Nando and Jack, complete freedom, divided into two groups with strict orders to stay together and meet me at specific points throughout the two days, all went very well other than the usual, well usual for us. Both Jonathan and Tony nutted up in public, Allen's anxiety manifested itself into both oppositionalism and complaints constantly, even Chuy, a little unsure, a fish out of water syndrome, was a little off his usual equilibrium.

The hypervigilance, that I'd alluded to yesterday, was off the charts, they were all peppering me with questions for the past week regarding every single moment up ahead, not listening to my replies, and asking again and again and again ad nauseum.

This is the third time in my 25 year adoption span that we've done this, no one remembers what they've gotten for Christmas a week later, I suggested each time, we just pool my savings - nerdlike regularity each month into the Christmas cache - and go somewhere. No one can take these fun experiences away from a person. I'm sick of materialism and broken stuff.

I planned it strategically, Daniel telling me he'd told the guys at Fort Gordon, "My mom's been a platoon leader for years."

I fantasized for a minute about how cool that'd be with strong, well-trained military guys trained to follow orders versus my ragtag bunch of issue-ridden children who balk, sputter, and pitch major hissy fits over everything and anything.

I'm constantly asked, "Now that you know what you know, would you willingly have chosen to do this again?"

Honey, that's why God doesn't tell us what's ahead, the dread would cripple us into immobility, we'd never comprehend that this would be something we could ever possibly handle. Are you kidding me? Heck no, I'd not have chosen to have been assaulted, robbed, lied to, frightened to pieces, exhausted beyond human capabilities, ridiculed, looked down upon, now left with a broke down house and major trauma issues within my own once very strong constitution. Slam a door and see if I don't jump a mile high.

But yeah, I'd have chosen to have these children. Life without Daniel? Noooooooooo.

Chuck and Yolie are down here too with Chuck's parents, who I ran into at Epcot. Nando's seen a classmate here, and so has CJ, amongst these millions of people.

North Georgia is predicted to have the first White Christmas in 130 years, I'll be driving back into that - after a day on the beach.

"Marry Christmas Mom, I think about you every minute," Sergi, almost 30 now, texted me.

Marry?

I snickered and snorted, thinking about the 39 reasons why I'm not desirable marriage material.

Onboard Peeing

I'd wanted to quote the specific aspects of hypervigilance that I encounter around here, but realized, in reading this page, I'd have to quote most of it, as my children all have it in varying degrees, and in their often abnormal responses to situations.

Hazel does not have this, but her expression says it all. I look like that too.

Needless to say, it makes most outings difficult, even challenging, as their hypervigilance kicks in, and often prevents them from either participating properly, or even allowing themselves to enjoy what's going on around them. That's where sabotage come in.

And then the blocks tumble down all around us, as they also want to prevent others from having a good time, generally driving up my own blood pressure in response while I work to manage each and every situation, keeping folks safe, and disallowing those with severe issues to ruin it for everyone.

More on this later, but even now, as I type, I'm feeling stress levels coursing and rising within me.

Holidays are particularly so.

Even that page on hypervigilance caused me stress as I read it, nodding my head rapidly as I studied the phenomenon that I so live with constantly.

I just have to remember to breathe.

And to take my vitamins, get plenty of sleep and exercise, gotta do it, or I'll be tied up in stomach knots.

Watering my houseplants calms me as well.

When, for example, a 14 year old here finds he can't provoke me, as I keep walking away so that I don't explode, he'll simply find an easier target, someone with zero coping skills, and then blamo, we have a fight. He then immediately and cartoonishly will burst into tears and claim to be the victim, even though I'd walked back into the room in response to the noise and was standing right there and saw the entire exchange.

"No, you didn't," he'll scream at me, and I absolutely cannot argue back that he SAW me right here. The facts do not matter to him. I always then think of a book title by Judge Judy. She written this before she became famous, "Don't Pee On My Leg And Tell Me It's Raining."

Really? You think that's gonna work for you in the real world? No amount of explanations, nor therapy, nor resources, and certainly no learning from experience has done him any good. He thrives upon chaos, a situation I absolutely abhor.

His older birth brother, now in prison, exhibited similar, but much more severe behaviors, but the similarity is astounding, especially since they never spent much time together in childhood, as the older brother was always in lock down psychiatric facilities except for very brief periods of time.

I'd never met their birth mother, one of the few I didn't meet, yet the caseworkers described her as a 'piece of work' simultaneously shaking their heads side to side, indicating the severity of her behaviors. There's a birth sister also, nearly sociopathic, my only RAD child, grown now, and predictably completely disinterested in all of us.

Deep sigh.

Moving on.

My other kids in their hypervigilance will try and make up for the lack in others at times, clinging to me, or being on their best behavior, reminding me constantly to remark upon it. I do. I try constantly to notice and compliment the good behaviors I see, hoping I can turn this ship around.

Those of us onboard are getting ridiculousy wet in the process.

However

I am a glad woman however...

Regarding Christmas

A couple of things, I suppose, maybe I’ve just snapped, certainly I’m unable to continue simply absorbing so much crappiness. I’m sorry I’m not your birth mom, but I am a human being who just can’t take this constant emotional pummeling.

I’ve spent holidays with angry violent children, with complete disrespect from other kids, with grown kids and their very unacceptable attitudes, severe negativity, with bile and venom, with complaints about everything, from what I’ve bought them to what I’ve served them to eat…with less than zero help from anyone.

I just can’t continue to smile benevolently and allow this crappiness. I feel as if I’ve fallen into a warped trap of enabling by allowing this anti-social behavior. Just because I understand it, doesn’t mean I have to continue to suffer for it.

I’m not cooking a Christmas Dinner this year, not gonna do it.

Grandma and I, mainly she though, used to go to a great deal of trouble for our traditional white elephant gift thingy, only to have kids acting up and out, no shows, late shows, or angry folks coming in wanting to spread their non-cheer.

I’m tending to the overall fourteen right good ones who still live here at home, with and for those that I’m obligated to create a Christmas memory, but I’m just not willing to paste on a fake smile and put up with unemployed grown folks who get drunk, do drugs and get arrested. They all just look me straight in the eye and lie to me anyway about anything and everything.

And Honey? The time they stole Paloma's medications? Leaving me unprepared with a raging kid? We were then at Myrtle Beach and there was nothing I could do when I realized I'd been robbed.

The grown kids who are doing well, and it’s the majority of them, have their own family traditions to tend to, Christmas with their children at their homes, and they’ve done a great job decorating, shopping, cooking, and doing what all they need to do for the holidays and for their families. I’m proud of them all.

I’m just kinda beginning to hang back for my own self-protection. My nerves are shot.

On another note, I’d taped, but not yet watched a National Geographic show about the genetic predisposition to violence that’s been marked and noted in people. Bet that’ll put me in a great mood.

Goofy and Goofier

A fun day with Goofy and Goofier, as Sarah referred to them today, they posses a great deal of personality, over flowing at times.

Jonathan had had a dark moment, a meltdown, he'd smacked Sabrina who was smart enough to not retaliate, we worked through it with his counselor who arrived soon after, but the clouds had passed, and he'd apologized by then.

Jack's running a fever, crashed on the sofa wth a flushed face and dry lips. Lily, Chuy and most of the rest have shaken it off finally.

Holiday Hell is rearing its ugly little head, the dread combining with past memories of a great deal of sadness from their pasts, I'm downplaying everything.

I'm just so out of patience with year after year of so little progress, some older kids are distressing me terribly with their ridiculous thoughts and attitudes, crappy criminalism, best if I keep my distance, and my opinions to myself, let them learn their own way about employment, bill paying and relationships.

They think I'm the stupid one for following rules and obeying laws.

How does one reason with that?

Permission to Be Slack

I've always been very partial to terrier mixes, they seem so uncannily intelligent, so alert and intuitive, but maybe I'm reading too much into it. This one, Amelia, she of three feet, the fourth hanging uselessly, is inexplicably very attached to JoJo. She has been so ever since Paloma left, maybe Amelia's wiring is such that she's drawn to troubled folks? She's lately taken to barking viciously at anyone, including me, who dare to venture past JoJo's third time replaced bedroom door each evening, his door is the first on the right going down the hall, so she's quite busy.

This viral crud that's going around has hit several of my kids now, faces flushed, complaining of sore throats and running fevers. Wary of OTC meds, I've given them high doses of Vitamin C and everyone's sucking on zinc lozenges, relief coming after a day or so of this regimen.

Sarah'd babysat while I lunched yesterday, how cool was that? I feel like I was a totally different person 30 years ago when I met these ladies, yet they remarked on how unchanged I was. Maybe I'm not as bitter as I thought?

Yet my over active thought processing runs high all day, ideas flitting through my brain, feelings rapidly sorted through, and either discarded, shelved for later, or worked out.

Jonathan's Pathways Counselor is keeping up a heavy rotation during the holidays, offering us three times a week, in-home counseling, which is wonderful. He adores her, looks forward to the visits - she's pretty, young and cool, at least compared to a mama like me. I also like her very much, she's very intelligent.

Desultorily flipping through TV channels at night, watching a bit of Celebrity Rehab, watching the famous addicts viciously bickering with each other, the doctor's explanations of acting-out behaviors, dang, they were worse than my kids who best not ever use that kind of language, every other word starting with F - used as a noun, a verb, an adjective and an adverb - Honey, that's just wrong. Pick a verb tense and stick with it.

But the doctor made an interesting comment, that an addict remains developmentally the same age as when they first became addicted, that the dependence on drugs prevents developmental milestones in their lives as they're doped up, numb and unfeeling. They were also all acting like 13 year olds. Point proven.

My mind wandered to my children who'd been born with drugs in their systems, neurons miswired and misfired, and thoroughly pickled by alcohol, and I just wanted to cry out at the absolute unfairness of it all. I cut off the TV in disgust, frustrated and sad, and walked around my room watering plants and thinking.

Drawn back by curiosity to that show, I turned it back on just in time to watch a lady having a full blown panic attack, listening to the doctor link anxiety and trauma.

Oh boy.

I see it, I know it's very real, several of my children have demonstrated it as such over the years, and this underscores the importance of therapy, yet quite a few of my sons, who've had heavy-duty therapy, do not respond. Usually it's due to the innate non-introspective nature of males, the dread they feel about even confronting their inner deep feelings, combined with the ease with which society demonstrates self-medication. Strong Marlboro men on TV rattling their gin and tonics thoughtfully, versus figuring out what the heck's wrong with them in the first place.

What if we were all personally responsible for our food? Wouldn't that then leave us all too busy to dabble in drugs, have affairs, or party like a rock star? Am I again being too simplistic? Put down that crack pipe folks and grow something.

I have a grown son, the son of a violent drug-abusing alcoholic who used to viciously beat the crap outta everyone in sight, this same guy, my son, drinks like a fish, as do his siblings. Can this not be broken? It shouldn't have to be inevitable.

I have two other sons, bonded and nurtured since they were blessedly born right here, working with me yesterday, replacing window locks and a brand new back deck lock, securing my house totally, for quite possibly the first time ever in which everything functions. Jack was using Grandpa's drill proudly, being complimented by me, "Yeah son, Grandpa'd be right proud of you, good job."

I do notice that I mention Grandpa everyday, it's only been two months, and I know I've been quietly grieving. 56 years was a long time to know someone, to have the amount of affirmation he constantly gave to me, of course I miss that, and miss him each day. I recognize that I've been emotionally withdrawn somewhat around here. I've silently given myself permission to be so emotionally slack until the first of the year, then I'll work on re-strengthening my own self.

Grandpa'd be right proud of me too. That's what I'd also just told Daniel in regards to his Army School granduation.

Lunching With The Ladies

Heck no, I'm not staying up to watch the lunar eclipse, nor to usher in the first day of winter, and fixate on the shortest amount of daylight. I'm just celebrating that it'll be springtime again before I know it.

Twenty three years ago I said goodbye to some of the nicest folks I'd ever worked with, I'd spent seven years in that school, loving every minute of it, but then I was on the cusp of this new adventure of adoption, having already been to Honduras to adopt my three daughters.

I didn't know I'd not ever see these ladies again.

They invited me out to lunch today, and honestly, it was as if only a day had passed by.

Other than I'd added thirty something kids to my family and they'd all lived full, wonderful lives, now we're a bunch of retired grandmas, and I had the best time with them, so much fun that we've already planned for the next time, hoping to include more of us from that school, back in the 1980s. We'd then worked up on the second floor of an un-air conditioned school building in Georgia...hot as Hades sometimes.

I kinda explained to them that I'd hardly been off my dirt road since back then, other than to the soccer fields and grocery stores.

They all looked fabulous, there was no other word, simply fabulous.

I really have to get out more often. I forget how much fun it is.

Forgiving Again and Again and Again

I received a comment the other day about a suicide, it came through my phone, and I thought about it all day long. This lady and I'd corresponded awhile back, she'd been maliciously reported to CPS, as have I over the years, prompting investigations that tear down any vestige of my children's wavering security - it takes a terribly vicious person to make such a mean and false accusation. In many of our cases, this happens when an adult child no longer receives entitlements, and they lash out horribly. I've heard from so many of you in similar straits.

This lady, like me, has had to learn how to forgive these mentally difficult people, but, in her case, they then committed the ultimate act of selfishness in committing suicide.

All she has left now, this woman, is knowing she forgave. Thank God, she'd done so, or she, like me, would forever be changed in a negative emotional manner.

As it is, she still has all of the impossible 'what ifs?'

I've had acquaintances, or have known of others, who've committed suicide. It happened to me, decades ago, when a very close relative did so, forever altering family events, as all of her closest relatives emotionally shut down forever, my grandparents never recovered, my father nearly lost his faith, he a pastor, unable to get through to his only sister, who was already terminally ill with cancer.

I was only ten years old then, I'd just lost my other grandmother weeks before this, and then stood stunned and forever altered by this act right after Christmas, turning me into a Scrooge Grinch immediately. I'd been her first niece, she had no children, and we were very close, all my early years spent living just two blocks away from her.

As a Christian, this murder of the body, if I can be blunt, has many spiritual ramifications, yet we also know intuitively that person couldn't have been in their right frame of mind, it's all about forgiveness, and trying to understand.

Kerri'd quoted the very brilliant CS Lewis the other day on Facebook, and it too had rang in my brain, “You don't have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.” When Grandpa left this world, we were there, it is literally seen, the physical body practically shrivels immediately without that soul that moved on. It is almost unnerving.

Just because we forgive someone, we also do not have to summarily allow them into our lives, knowing they'll keep on trying to hurt everyone. I literally have court orders denying some grown kids the right to ever be around us anymore, due to victimization issues, or critical safety issues.

Yes, I forgive, it'd be a cancer upon my soul if I didn't forgive, but I gotta move on in an emotionally healthy manner.

A grown kid has sought pastoral counseling, still angry at birth parents that hurt them badly, worried that this anger is causing such emotional distress, learning that forgiving doesn't mean just shrugging it off and allowing those people to continue their emotional abuse of you. Forgiving is empowering, as is the eventual letting go of the anger.

It is a process.

Duh.

I grapple, struggle and fret over this, sad that it has come to this, usually unable to comprehend that some people might not ever be emotionally healthy enough to have any sort of a relationship with others.

For me, this is where I retreat into prayer, knowing I have so few answers, even at my age.

I'm praying for my reader, Lisa, and for her family that now must go forward, this was her daughter-in-law who'd caused so many problems, now her son is left with all this unimaginable fallout.

Where does one go from here?

A Peaceful Scene

Overall my family's right healthy, but there's some bug creeping through the schools that's starting to manifest itself around here. Sabrina puked yesterday, Jack and Nando are coughing, and Chuy ran a fever, hacking like an old man.

Not everyone's up for church yet, so I don't know what today's gonna bring.

I've never been able to properly read a thermometer, but I hug my kids enough to know when the temperature on their skin, or within their bodies, is elevated. When I've taken any one of them to the doctor, I've always guessed the correct temperature nearly right on the money every single time. Yeah, I'm bragging, I know my kids.

Not owning a thermometer has meant one less thing to break.

The creche above is only safe because it's now over at Sarah's house. Surprisingly enough, we do have one set up in the family room at the moment, so far so good, but it's kinda tucked away on the plant end of the room.

My own immune system is very strong. I rarely, almost never ever, catch anything from them, maybe it's an inhospitable environment for a bug within my often uber-stressed system? Who knows? Maybe all that Vitamin C flushes anything out of me. Maybe it's the high-fiber diet? The lack of greasy animal protein contaminating my guts? Possibly I'm just too annoying for a bug to settle within me?

It's gonna be warm enough to haul manure later today. My innards are racing to get it done, then I wanna put a 6" layer over on top of all my garden beds in the Big Back Garden, plus I gotta call Tree Man for wood chips, and then I can single-handedly finish off Grandma's area, me happily racing around with a wheelbarrow, and have her set to plant at the end of January when we need to get onions and greens out, plus root vegetable seeds in the ground.

We never even unlocked out front gate yesterday, Grandma never got out of her nightgown, but, I, at least, got a great deal accomplished. Amazing what one can get done when the other housemates aren't starting fights, fires, or problems. They all played happily, fairly well, leaving me without having to referee anything at all.

I love it when that happens around here.

Not Tolerating Criminal Behavior

This photo of Martin has nothing to do with this post. He's a great kid, nearly 17, here at Daniel's graduation this week.

I think The Adoption Counselor explained exactly the massively deep frustration that I've been caterwauling about all month. I'm just so entirely exasperated and I'm gonna go church lady here on everyone. If we simply all followed The Golden Rule, nothing else, believe in whatever Higher Being floats your boat, most problems would be greatly eased. At the moment I just cannot even bear to counsel anyone through the consequences of their bone-headed choices.

So naturally and conversely, Claudia wrote of the relationship versus the behaviors...and I still find myself unmoved to some degree, so freaking tired of the relentlessness of criminal minds.

I can, and do, forgive, but I also must remove myself and my family from situations for safety reasons and for self-preservation.

I'd spoken to my original adoption caseworker, the one who has either directly or indirectly supervised almost all of my adoptions, the one who knows all of the episodes here, all of the stuff I don't blog, because I totally trust her judgement and advice, she's often the only one, besides Sarah and Yolie, I absolutely will confide in.

"Am I being too harsh?" I'd asked, as we spoke of my inability to even begin to want to participate in the crappy shenanigans I see exploding in the lives of some grown kids.

"No, I don't think so," she'd replied, having been through more than her own fair share of horrible onslaughts, as she's an adoptive parent also. The last 20 plus years of this have taken a toll on both of our emotional and physical health, something I'd have scoffed at years ago. "Not me" I might've crowed, unable to comprehend the torment and shocking victimization that would follow my clearly called-by-God decision to adopt older children with some incredibly severe mental health issues.

Last night was calm, this morning I'd hope to haul manure to finish Grandma's gardens, but it's raining and too cold. I did get two hours to myself yesterday afternoon, pulling weeds out back, grinning at the fat earthworms I'd seen, loving the amazing texture of the soil that I've amended for nearly 20 years here, and turning over some soil, happy and content to be doing what I so dearly love, my hens clucking, and some dogs sprawled in the warm sunshine.

I only have three children not involved in either the middle or high school youth group, so last night's Christmas Party and Bonfire took 11 kids and kept 'em busy and happy. Next year even my sweet Jack'll be in Youth Group.

I'm hardly mentioning Christmas at all, knowing the Holiday Hell season that I've endured too many times over the years. I have low key plans and a deep desire for peace during this season.

He's Daniel

Daniel chose The Grit for lunch, an obvious favorite of mine, warning me not to even call him to complain, or explain, I was puking later when I ate the rest of his delicious cherry almond cake after already scarfing down my own serving of a chocolate mint one. They serve whopping size pieces, lick skillet delicious, homemade from scratch with the very best ingredients.

CW is pictured here with Daniel who was only 11 when CW was born, I have tons of happy photos of the two of them. Megan, his very wonderful girlfriend, is in the other picture. See? I'm not the over-possessive mama I might've been, not wanting to share Daniel with anyone. I always have wanted for him to be happy, and I knew he'd choose well, he's Daniel.

This morning I have two sons up in New York, as Daniel's celebrating the weekend there with tickets for the NFL Game that'll be played on Sunday in the snowing cold. Jesse's snowed in upstate.

But starting right now, after those two mongo chunks of cake, I'm going to try and be exemplary in my dietary habits, having the lab numbers right in front of me, two different test results over a four month time span, giving me more desirable numbers to strive for, this I can do.

As for the stress, I'll have to learn to manage better via exercise particularly, something I rarely do other than long walks, wrongly telling myself that all my running around is enough, when it's clearly not. I'm only deluding myself.

Knowing the beach cures everything, I'll never not go again when it's warm, telling the kids maybe Edisto this year, reminiscing aloud 'bout the time I'd ridden my bike from Daytona to St. Augustine, dang, I really did use to have a life, a fairly stressless one at that. I miss it.

Today is their last day of school before the holidays, we've bustled like worker bees all week trying to get everything done, my high schoolers will be home early today.

Due to this being such a small town and the fact that generations of folks like to tattle, I hear way too much that distresses me. I like how Facebook allows me to 'hide' a status, I don't have to even see the ones that brag about getting wasted, but Honey, I gotta tell you, the letters come to my house addressed to you when you use my address. Do you think I wanna hear from defense attorneys soliciting your business or bail bondsmen? Use your own address.

My distraught, suicidal kid appears to have recovered pretty good, hardly speaking to anyone yesterday, remnants of a depression certainly, but more animated today, asking me about our plans, maybe my biggest prayer over all my kids should be both for emotional healing and for the mega emotional strength that all adults need so much.

Modeling it apparently isn't enough...

Yeah I'm strong, but I'm also closed off in a lot of ways, keeping such a tight rein on my emotions so I won't combust, nor tell folks how I really feel sometimes, the good or the bad, or simply dissolve in puddles from the uber-stress that attempts to nearly drown me. Glad I can swim.

I was happily telling Daniel how very soon I'll be able to travel when he has other Army school graduations, I'm just a few short years from being this tied down. He anticipates his next one in three years, in the meantime, he has a very exciting life unfolding before him. I'm watching with pride and happiness and I didn't upchuck from overeating cake.

My niece, Lauren, will graduate from William & Mary this spring and I wanna be there for her, representing her mom (my late sister), or when my other beautiful nieces marry and have children, I wanna be with them. I wanna take care of my mother, I wanna hang around with my grandbabies, and enjoy happiness versus this constant level of self-destruction and pisspoor choices I see around too many of my grown children.

I keep reminding myself though, that the majority of my grown children are doing quite well.

I can't allow the other negativity in my face, preventing me from enjoying all the other good stuff.

Lab Results

A fasting blood test can give some interesting indications.

In my case, the overall lab results show a corresponding lack of stress during the last six month period, in spite of losing my dad, and my embarrassingly lack of compliance in taking my supplements.

"What's the major change?" my osteopathic physician probed, while I scratched my head, and considered what's different this school year.

Oh! Duh! I smacked my ownself upside of my head.

Paloma's not living with us right now, instead she's residing in a facility that deals with severely disturbed kids.

That's what's different.

And if I, an intelligent educated woman absorbed that much stress from dealing with such violent craziness, how much more so for my younger children who had to listen to a raging bipolar kid often yell she's was gonna kill us all?

Something's gotta give.

My lab results indicate I'm at a high risk for heart issues. My BMI, my weight, my vegetarian lifestyle and plant-based diet have all combined to curb the risks, but in spite of all those benefits, the stress levels prove I'm in a bit of a health danger.

Paloma won't have to stab me, as she's threatened, my heart might just stop from fear and stress, then she'll be shut of me.

Good thing I changed my will, so that those who've been so hateful will not benefit from the possible $2 windfall.

Who lives like this?

I want to be healed and strong again, able to live a long life for my grandchildren, not cut short by impossible living conditions.

As a form of very necessary self-protection, I've also trained myself to not care so much, when all my caring does is add to dangerously high stress levels, giving the others power to harm me easily from within. This is where disengaging comes in handy.

I can't fix mental illnesses, I can't stop grown kids from teetering on the brink of alcoholism, chronic unemployment, drug use, and debilitating rageful attacks upon others. Therapy, massive resources, and other professional programs have hardly had an effect, why did I think I could make a difference?

I'm just a mama.

Bliss and An Emotional Crash

I'd planned to write solely about Daniel's graduation from Signal School at Fort Gordon, my immense pride in him, and the way JoJo, and even CW, were so impressed with it all that, they both indicated a desire to follow Daniel into a military career. They'd also watched from afar as Sergi and Jesse both had served in the Navy, making me think long and hard, reversing my once different stance upon all this, from way back in the Vietnam War era.

Daniel'd won the German Proficiency Badge, it appeared that less than 20% of his class had done so, again making me so proud. We planned on meeting for breakfast or lunch sometime today, as I had to rush back home from Augusta yesterday afternoon.

Within the hour I had a deputy, an ambulance, and several First Responders in my driveway.

A high school romance dissolved, an emotionally unstable one threatened suicide, running off into the night, I couldn't find the one, searching the woods in an icy rain with a flashlight, I was getting very scared, there's hundreds of wooded acres, so I phoned the authorities for help, and, amazingly enough, one of the First Responders immediately found this one out walking down near the highway, and brought the one home.

A conference ensued here, it was decided I should take the one to the hospital for an evaluation by a professional, I didn't want me to be the one making a safety decision, I was too emotionally involved. "What do you think?" I kept asking the EMTs.

"The Bodies? The Bodie Bunch? You write an adoption blog, right?" Barcode Mike asked me, the mental health counselor on duty that totally disarmed us all. I'd taken birth siblings with me for emotional support for the one who'd threatened. Fortunately for me, someone had Facebooked me the specific threat, so I had it in writing which helped the counselor.

The Counselor, Barcode Mike, assessed the situation, a bit surprised that this one wouldn't talk with him unless we were all in the room, frightened and emotionally spent. I immediately adored this counselor, he totally got it, later telling me he'd raised his own family members, he with an LCSW, yet found himself unable to prevent them from returning to drugs, just as I, a former educator, couldn't stop my own family members from dropping out of school.

His specific family members now aimless and nonfunctioning, just like some of my own grown kids, I found that to be oddly comforting. This option of free will has cost some folks a great deal.

Barcode Mike, due to a specific tattoo on his arm, eventually dismissed us, making me feel safe about taking this one home, who later surprised my by nutting up once again until about midnight back at home, but has made it to school today.

We do not have access to firearms here for obvious reasons, I'd checked that the medications were there untouched, while hoping and praying for a good resolution late last night, I know that I have kids with few coping skills, and that scares me immensely. The Counselor hasd sent us home with his phone number just in case which also reassured me.

Barcode Mike mentioned to me, "Something's gotta give," regarding the stress level I carry, and I'd written, but not published, just such a post yesterday, surprised by the results of a lab test that indicated I could have heart issues at some point with the way things are going. I'll publish that post in a minute, after I get through with processing my feelings on a difficult night.

Tabby and Nando have an early morning dentist appointment, and I'd wanted to meet Daniel for lunch today to celebrate yesterday's accomplishment before he heads off to his Homeland Security Position soon in Atlanta, yet again making me so proud and happy for him.

This roller coaster ride around here is giving me whiplash of the heart, just as all this exploded yesterday, I'd been standing at my kitchen counter, admiring a Christmas Card photo of Amanda S's family, knowing some of her heartaches with her large, beautiful family, when whamo, out of the the blue, this all ensued.

My heart is still slamming around in my chest.

Keep Reminding Me

Raising 39 perfect children would've still been a tough job, raising 39 children when a dozen of them had significant mental health issues, another dozen were oppositional and defiant at very least, all had legitimate grief issues, and the ramifications of early childhood trauma, plus the emotional and physical damage done by neglect, abuse and abandonment...no wonder I'm a little weary this morning.

My first email of the day came from one of my late sister's college roommates, she'd sent it to Ellen's daughter, Lauren, and I, acknowledging the loss of Grandpa, and her words about knowing him since she was 18 years old struck me hard.

Because he was once a pastor, my dad touched folks hugely. He was one of the major folks to help see this woman, Betsy, through the loss of Ellen, and he's seen her every year since at the Race for the Cure up in the DC area where they all came to represent Ellen each year.

I've been up to Betsy's house, met her beautiful family, spent time with her at the beach house at Nags Head, and watched her normal, successful life from afar, the life we've all striven to emulate... as regular people, to work hard and to succeed.

But I kinda live on a different planet, the one God plopped me on to teach me some things apparently about empathy, tolerance and understanding.

"Hey, God," I might would've said, had I not lived this challenging life, "I got this, I don't need you." Us hard-heads have to learn some very deep lessons, I get that, and, yes, I see the correlation here on all levels.

I'm not depressed from all this grief, but I do recognize that I'm not exactly myself lately, a beat off maybe, slower about everything, as I process, and also try to keep my mom on track.

I see myself struggling lately again and again, with the futility of my life's work, watching grown kids act as if I'd taught them nothing all those years.

Nothing.

My middle class morality bored them, the lectures on virtue, and the model of a hard-working, bill-paying, law-abiding citizen was nothing to them, other than someone to jeer at and reject, to make fun of, to consider me to be a boring loser, since loser equates with a square.

I don't cry, I'm not sad, I simply miss Dad, another good one gone, while I struggle with watching so many terribly poor choices being made all around me.

I hear from you all, folks who've adopted older children, and we all share this same thread, where we feel as if we've made no difference, other than to have accidentally destroyed our own good cheer.

As always, my Daniel, modest and unassuming, is again stepping up to the plate today for my happy moment. I'm getting to watch him graduate from his Army school, and move on to yet another stepping stone of success, continually amazing me.

I'm so blessed to be his mom, thank you God for choosing me some twenty years ago, giving me this once sad and angry barely six year old kid who has truly blossomed into an incredible man.

Keep reminding me, Lord, how long this is all gonna take...

The Sky Is Falling

Martin played with a barn cat at the horse stable on Saturday, outside in a T-shirt, the way we Georgia folks like for our December to be.

The weather is, of course, the first thing I thought about upon awakening, record lows here for December, that make me miserable.

A reader from Iowa, Nancy, a wonderful prayer partner, sent photos of what she's living through. Honey, I'd just shrivel up and be unable to function like that, I thought about her, as I poured boiling water on my chicken's water bucket to melt the ice. This is Georgia, it isn't supposed to be like this, we're not fit for this kind of cold.

I'd forgotten about my van flat tire, it had happened on the morning of Grandpa's funeral, and now I need to go get the spare replaced, we're driving to Daniel's Army School graduation tomorrow, and I don't plan to be on the interstate without it.

I really wanna go over on the Atlanta Highway today about as much as I wanna go play in the cold, neither possibility appeals to me, but it's pressingly necessary.

I'd typed out yesterday's Bitter, Much? post in a bout of extreme frustration, sat on it overnight, and re-read it again today. I still feel this strongly, am still baffled by those who think they're too good to work at a fast food joint, or just too sadly lazy.

Some bug is coursing through the schools, knocking out Yolie's family yesterday, even CW wandered up to my room last night, surprised by his sniffles, he's so rarely, if ever, bothered by cold symptoms. He was more annoyed than anything. I too almost never ever get sick, my immune system has been toughened by decades of exposure to viruses, I suppose.

My little basement digger also just came whining to me, "My voice is gone," he blurted raspy-like.

I'd babysat Sarah's children yesterday, hope they weren't exposed.

It's about time for me to do some repainting around here, an onerous winter chore, but necessary with the amount of stress and strain on my home, my list of deferred maintenance is huge.

A man from church who'd replaced two bathroom floors in October had remarked, "Cindy, I'm afraid your ceiling's gonna fall in on your head one night," knowing that was the only time I ever went up to my room. I know that I want to pay cash for the replacement, therefore it has to wait until next month or so, and how hard would a chunk of Sheetrock hurt this knotty head anyway?

An Iowa December would just freeze my hard head, looky here at thse snow piles, jeepers.

Bitter, Much?

I am very disappointed in a lot of areas. The entitlement issue that I see amongst so many twenty somethings, so common as to be almost expected in folks nowadays, is fixing to send me over the edge.

I've worked hard all my life, have lived simply, and very sacrificially, so that I could help people, mainly those that I'd adopted.

Yet I can't seem to get that particular lifestyle explanation embedded in many of my kids.

Who thinks they don't have to work?

How can anyone function in this world expecting others to take care of them, to pay their bills, and do everything for them?

Why do women nowadays put up for one second with a chronically unemployed man?

I used to give my grown kids money for their birthdays and Christmas gifts, figuring they knew better what they needed rather than me trying to buy what they liked.

But no more.

I've watched unemployed criminals afford their drugs and alcohol, expensive clothes and jewelry and tattoos and wanna flash rolls of bills as if they were all that, taking money from an idiot (me) who was standing there wearing hand-me-down clothes from a bag.

I have bill collectors calling my number and Grandma's number every single day asking for about seven of my grown kids who've not lived there in years, even a former girlfriend of one of them had used my address once, now her bill collectors are calling us. I'm sick of this.

Knowing I'll never bail anyone out of jail, they've had the nerve to call and ask if they could have their birthday and Christmas money early - their entitlement? - to pay a bail bondsman.

I don't play like that.

I've allowed folks to live here, dumbly thinking I was helping them become better prepared for the world, only to have been robbed or worse.

I've tried to help kids not be so angry at the world, due to their early childhood trauma, only to discover that some of them greatly enjoyed their anger and the apparent emotional blackmail it held over our family.

I've been told by my higher-functioning successful kids, which is fortunately the majority of my family, to turn 'em loose, cut 'em off, not allow them to come over all thuggish and lost...and the time has come.

It's pointless isn't it anyway to have criminal folks drop in, case the joint, walk out with what they want, lie to me, lie and deny, and be a terrible influence to the teenagers who still live with me.

I'm extremely fed up.

I'm afraid my silence has indicated some warped form of approval in their minds.

Get a job folks, stop breaking the laws of the world, and learn how to be honest.

Loving Gina

Sabrina came bopping out of her room, supposedly ready for Church, but wearing flips flops. JoJo had on shorts, and I simply had a cow, made 'em both change, only to get there and see other folks, like Mayra's boyfriend, also wearing shorts while our area was under a winter storm watch. Her boyfriend weighs 300 pounds, the cold didn't bother him, but skinny ole Sabrina would've looked ridiculous in flip flops.

Surprisingly JoJo didn't put up a fuss about having to change at the last minute, but I watched Jonathan's countenance darken forebodingly all morning until he finally exploded, punching JoJo in the mouth, busting his lip open.

I was in shock, but before I could even say a word, JoJo, of course, reflexively punched him in the eye, I jumped between them, hoping Jonathan's yells of fury would get to my big boys in the family room. I got them apart and Chuy very inexplicably, and wrongly, took Jonathan's side and wanted to fight with JoJo. I then jumped between the two of them, yelling at Chuy, "What's wrong with you?"

Dang, boys, didn't we just come home from church?

Martin and Allen kinda backed me up, I was able to reason with Chuy, then JoJo, while Jonathan referred to me as, " dumb bitch," which does not unnerve me in the least when I consider the source of his limited vocabulary and inability to articulate his deep seated issues. Dude, I have a Master's Degree from Emory University - I ain't dumb. He'd already made Nando cry, so I'd been keeping a mere 10 or 20 feet from him at all times, easily discerning he was fixing to blow. My mom didn't waste that expensive college tuition on this girl.

$5000 a year just for tuition in the 1970s, that's a chunk of change. Gina would later follow in my footsteps, going to Oxford College of Emory University, third generation of Bodies, as Grandpa'd been an Emory man too. By the time Gina got there it was $27,000 a year, including dorm and meal plans, so I spent all my time then chasing scholarships for her. Score!

Chuy eventually calmed down also, and the former combatants settled down to play video games, while I, as always, did all the work, and Grandma'd brought over a casserole for lunch.

I was angrily vaccumming, crashing around, sighing dramatically, and each other-outside-my-periphery-thud I heard caused me to flinch, shutting off the power, looking around me, making sure these were good thuds, not another fight starting.

Who lives like this? When my blood pressure teeters so high, my resentment grows, and I really gotta pray my way through to some inner peace, which fortunately, I've had enough experience in doing so, that it's now a very second automatic nature.

Tony spent all day provoking kids to anger, muttering ugly stuff about them, and alienating everyone even farther, if possible. He has no friends, he does this at school also.

Gina, now 32 years old, came by and took Lily with her to run errands, Jack and Grandma went to a Cub Scouts Christmas Party after church, and I kept cleaning, as the activity dulls my anger at such crappy treatment of me and my seemingly fruitless efforts to teach folks how to act decently.

I focus on the good stuff. Gina's long made me extremely proud of her, I smile with deep love at the very sight of her, Jack'd gotten a set of wonderful flannel sheets from a dear friend of mine yesterday, and when I'd gone in to kiss him goodnight, flipping back the comforter and finding Shadow, the very mischievous terrier, backwards up under the covers sound asleep, his head down around Jack's feet...I hadda just crack up laughing.


Now that I've flushed my inner toilet of feelings, I can hit 'publish' and get on with my day, knowing I need to get Jack up to the schoolhouse early for his broadcasting obligations this week, if I can drag him out from under those warm, soft flannel sheets, and push him out into the cold hard world. Georgia is freezing this week.

Gina does not have fingers on one of her hands and I always foget about it, one just notices she's a very pretty woman when one meets her. This picture was taken as a lure to get Sarah to knit proper fitting mittens for Gina...a hint hint moment.