I'm An April Fool Today

Blew out the modem, now waiting on AT & T to send a replacement, entailing a trip to Sarah’s house this morning in order to publish what I’ve written here in a Word document. My wonderful new best friend, my IPhone allowing to read news and weather pages.

Funny thing is, I again lost all my phone contacts when I put music on the phone, yet Sarah believes that since we backed up everything, it’ll reappear when I sync properly over at her house.

We’re still mired in a cool snap, yucky grey and drizzly skies, contrasting with bright new green leaves and flowering dogwoods.

I know there’s deep controversy over unnecessarily medicating kids, I read slam dunk yelling opinions both ways, yet until one lives with children who are dreadfully challenged by many psychoses, I think one might ought to withhold judgment.

Paloma simply could not function without her meds, even with psychotropic medications, she can rage significantly.

I only have a couple of kids at home on meds, mainly for aggressive behaviors, one for the bipolar tendencies that have cost him a year of schooling due to his own refusals to even bother attending.

I’ve spoken with my physician about something for my own anxiety and even recurring depressive moods, but that’s the point. My blue issues are just moods, likely either hormonal or situational, not an eviscerating pall that hangs over my life. I’m not debilitated, therefore she insisted, and I agree totally, that I should soldier on through, trying to reduce stress.

I’m on a ton of vitamin supplementation, two tons literally, all that swallowing is nearly gagging me each day.

Sabrina’s dance class at school held their recital last night, their intermission coinciding perfectly with my need to get back to church at 8 to pick up the kids, running them home for Grandma and Mayra to put ‘em to bed, while I dashed back into the auditorium just in time to see her fourth dance of the evening.

Two hours of sitting there watching others move on stage unseated my own inner restlessness. Oh my goodness, ants in my pants fidgeting, a hyperactive wiggle worm on crack aptly describes my demeanor.

I told my teenage boys early this morning that I was fixing to go out with a new man tonight, but that I hadn’t told him I had any kids, such a buzz kill.

“Please hide when he gets here so he won’t see y’all,” I implored to my extremely wide-eyed sons who stared back at me in absolute flabbergasted shock.

“Are you kidding me?” one roared back, totally insulted.

The rest of 'em just stared at me, waiting for me to spin an explanation in my defense.

“April Fools!” I shouted with unbridled childish glee, proud of myself for chumping everyone first thing in the morning. “You gotta get up real early to beat mama,” I proudly crowed.

“Well, Miss Genius, today’s March 31st,” JoJo retorted.

“Oh,” I responded, deflated, shoulders slumping, but recovering quickly as I’m prone to do.

“So forget about it, I’ll punk you tomorrow,” was my lame comeback, as I slunk back to the kitchen.

A Fart Story

Holy smokes batboy, it’s not like I change the plans whimsically. Our routine is rigidly set in stone. I get up when I wake up, between 4 and 6, I get you all up by 6:30. Always and without fail, this never changes. I don’t oversleep, I don’t dilly dally.

Why did three boys get busleft today? Is Busleft a word up north? A thunderstorm precluded their girly showers and they stressed over their hair too long. Seriously, they are this vain. I nearly lost my religion this a.m.

The Emotional Twins are the worst of all, fretting, melting down, and complaining, blaming me for the storms.

”Quit praying for so much rain,” they’ll holler at me, still not comprehending that rain fills up the well with the water that they use for primping each morning.

Flat, slap out of gas, trying to hold off until midnight tomorrow night when my retirement check lands in my account, yes I have emergency funds squirreled away, but I’m parsimonious about that, not wanting to consider busleft boys as an emergency.

There went another $96.00 to fill up a 15 passenger gas-guzzling van.

Grandma had been hounding me to go out to lunch with her, but on her schedule which is a small window of opportunity due to her thrice weekly Bridge games, line dance class and church activities.

We managed to slip away by one yesterday afternoon, me not really wanting to go, as I’d not gotten any chores done, but she prevailed.

An elderly man at the next table was drinking Old Fashioneds, I heard him order yet another, and I’m thinking, “At one in the afternoon, dude?” It’s not like he has to go home and face oppositional, emotionally challenged teenagers.

He eventually rewarded my skepticism by loudly farting as he arose from his table, either so elderly or so inebriated that he didn’t even notice the other table of shocked women trying not to gag. I don’t surmise that it even registered with him at all.

Even Grandma heard it and looked at me in surprise, like I’d been the one to break wind.

I was, of course, immaturely falling down with laughter, the other table of women eventually unable to resist snickering while the offender toddled off obliviously.

The highlight of my day? Apparently.

Yet I then prayed about something with Yolie that was immediately and positively answered within minutes, usually God puts us in the dadgum waiting room, where we all need to learn lessons, me the most of all, what with being both stubborn and too silly. My contrasting events, a fart story and a prayer journal entry. Go figure.

With Daniel’s military discount and my overdue upgrade, plus a 25% off accessories event, I paid less than sticker price, actually they’ll bill me, so it’ll come out of April’s budget, and I am now the proud owner of an Iphone.

Oh. My. Goodness. It makes my Blackberry look like a Fisher Price toy. No kidding, it’s that wonderful. No more butt dialing, I got the heavy duty case that all spazzs like me must acquire.

Anyone seens Smarty Pants Sarah’s tribute to me on Facebook? I really am that un-coordinated.

I’d have been a farting ballerina, no doubt about it, yet Grandma wisely then steered me academically, an area in which she knew I’d more likely excel. Us Eisenhower girl babies had less options to consider way back then, thus explaining my first marriage at a young age.

My second marriage was totally my fault.

I shoulda known better.

I think our modem got struck again, I’m headed to Sarah’s house to publish this, plus copycat all her apps, as I know she’s already whittled it down to that which we’ll both need and enjoy.

Horticultural Induced Stress Relief

NOW our Internet is properly fixed, again it was Chuck who quickly discovered that our network card and modem had been struck by lightening. I had my Blackberry to check my emails, but I sure did miss sitting and reading stuff on the computer.

Marcela brought Marissa by, completely forgetting the part about not dressing up to go to Bita's house. Hello? There's way too many tantalizing dirt piles, mud holes, friendly animals, kid's paint sets, and interesting kitchen gewgaws for any toddler to resist. Heck fire, look at me, I can't resist the mud and I'm headed to the north end of my 50s.

Marissa's so full of herself anyway. I'd met her mother, my daughter, Marcela AKA Moonpie, down in Honduras, up on a mountain, in a dirt floor room where she then lived, back when Marcela herself was a smiling faced youngster who immediately sat her pee-soaked butt on my lap and messed with the necklace I was then wearing - likely the lat time I ever wore anything remotely resembling jewelry. That was around 1987 I believe.

Marcela's 30th birthday is in April, as is Yolie's 31st, Cristy's 34th, JoJo's 14th and Jonathan's 13th. Her two birth sisters, Saray and Deysi, are now almost 33 and 35, Gina turns 33, Carolina hit 30, and Sergi will also be 30 this year, giving me EIGHT kids in their 30s now. No wonder I feel so proprietary and maternal toward our young police officers putting themselves in harm's way for us citizens.

A couple of my boys were total buttheads upon seeing Marcela here yesterday, not because she was here, but because I'd, rightly so, denied them the opportunity to participate in a roller skating event that the middle school was sponsoring. A consequence that enraged them both. JoJo calling me a liar, that he'd not done what I explained to him I'd witnessed him doing with my own eyes.

Jonathan has been hatefully and defiantly acting out for a solid month, in response to Miss Kim telling him he'd come off DJJ probation soon, and JoJo has been rudely yelling at me that he can do what he wants to do.

That's not how you convince Mama to ever sign your learner's permit application. Ain't gonna happen until I see tremendously improved behaviors. Grown up life is going to be incredibly challenging for these two boys if they don't soon settle down and learn a few coping skills.

So both boys stormed around, Jonathan threatening to run away, JoJo being flat out ugly to everyone until bedtime.

Is this any way to live? Constant tension? Threats of bodily harm? Fist fights and wall punching? Attempting to manage irrational behaviors 24-7 with zero relief?

I'd recently learned of a felony drug arrest of one who's old enough to go to big boy jail, later bailed out by his girlfriend's mother. Can anyone picture me bailing out a drug using boyfriend of my daughter? Can anyone picture me allowing a daughter to date a druggie? What planet is this?

The word stressful is woefully inadequate.

When my irascible dog, Shatter, can so easily learn the bare fundamentals of obedience behavior, why can't my kids at least learn to tone it down a notch? Just a notch?

I'd run to Sarah's yesterday to suck up her wireless network, in order to publish two posts I'd been dragging around on a flash drive, totally impressed with her teaching Ray to read so nicely. Sarah's as enthralled with books and the written word as anyone would've been growing up usually without a TV set, but always with a pile of library books. Having a mom for a media specialist paid off for that pretty bookworm.

Just seeing Ray and Hazel's normalness makes me breathe easier, later being so entertained by Marissa has the same effect on lowering my blood pressure.

I think I'll go take Grandma to Lowes so she can get more lumber this morning. The last time we went, a guy came up to me, "You don't remember me?" he asked in response to my kinda blank look.

Jeepers, boy, I barely remember lunch. I had no clue as to where I knew him from.

This guy hadn't seen me since my hair was dark and curly, nearly 20 years ago. How'd he remember? I feel like an elderly, uber-stressed ragdoll nowadays. He pressed his business card into my hand, while I stood there stoopidly still racking my whacked out brain cells.

Even my own mother who lives here in an attached chunk of house, has no clue as to how much attention I have to pay to every single movement in my house, how much on high alert I must be at all times, how a loud noise skyrockets and ratchets up my response issues, how on edge my nerves constantly are, my osteopathic physician repeating, "You've gotta get some stress relief," while I stare back at her wild-eyed and bumbling for an answer.

As IF.

It's as chilly as a winter day here right now, our 70 degree temps hiding for a spell, more rain tomorrow, which makes me very happy, but I really do have a cwapload to work on right now, instead of dillydallying here, like I'm wanting to do.

I spent $398 on gasoline for my van and truck this month and I hardly go anywhere. How is that even possible? The receipts don't lie and it has cost right at $97, $99 and $95 each time I've filled up the van this month. That's shocking, but more impetus that I don't need, but certainly want, to stay home where I prefer being anyway.

Sarah blogged her Sugar Scrub recipe last night. Read it while I stare up into the wisteria clambering up a magnolia tree in Daniel's yard. Southern wisteria takes my breath away, providing me with horticultural induced stress relief.

Sunday's Funeral Procession

Our Internet got blasted by the storms, I’m writing a word document, because writing’s how I cope. Funny thing is, yesterday after I’d barfed it all out, I then walked away from the computer, refreshed even though I’d not , nor couldn’t, hit publish. It’s the act of writing that I so need each day.

I took the kids with me to line the Atlanta Highway, as the police chief had suggested the citizens do, in order to pay our respects. I was subdued by the solemnity of it all, the amount of police cruisers was astronomical, two lanes of them took 47 minutes to pass us by, police officers from Charlotte, North Carolina and Arlington, Virginia joining all the police from our state who’d sent representatives.

Officer Kandy on Facebook said she’d seen reps from New Orleans and Chicago as well.

The streets were lined the entire ten mile route, we were down near the cemetery where they transported his body into a horse drawn carriage. Thousands of folks completely silent, fighting tears. Seeing lawmen cry will sure shake you up.

This was so senseless and such tremendous loss here.

My children were certainly quiet.

We’d already had a ruckus here because another kids irrationally blamed me for all the ills in the world, he shut down, and wouldn’t go with us. Everything is my fault, especially the fact that they’ve been adopted, as if I slithered around kidnapping kids from their real parents.

Oh wait, that’s how lawmen are treated as well, disrespected for attempting to uphold the law. Sneered and jeered at, attacked and assaulted as they protect us ungrateful citizens and we hardly give them a thought until we need them.

I have a medical week coming up, the first week of Spring is now chilly and rainy, Chuy’s getting an MRI on his bum knee, Nando’s getting that cyst removed, and I have two other such appointments. We also have Dr C and Dr. Mandy appointments.

Here I go.

First Rose of the Season

“Mom, you gotta come get me right now,” Sabrina implored, in strange tone of voice, two hours after I’d left her at a party. A party in which I’d first made sure the parents were home, the dad is a lawman, he assured me he’d have close supervision going on.

I ‘d just gotten out of the shower, hair dripping wet, quickly questioning her, “Are you in trouble? “

“No, ma’am,” I’ll explain it all when you get here, but you need to hurry, the police are here right now.”

What the heck? I quickly dressed and pulled a comb through my hair, I never use a hair dryer anyway, and I ran downstairs and got Martin and CW to go with me, a little unsure as to what I’d face there. Fortunately Grandma was here to babysit, and the younger kids had already gone to bed.

Turns out a 13 year old had driven a car to the party and brought some dope along with him.

Are you kidding me? The birthday girl’s father is a cop, he has a drug dog. I was floored at that level of ludicrous behavior. Everyone knows he’s a cop.

The 13 year old is usually a pretty nice kid, I’ve known him for years, I‘d cheered him on in soccer yesterday in the rain.

My own kids think I’m too strict and don’t ever let them have any fun. I keep getting vindicated though. One of my kids had wanted to go spend the night at this 13 year old guy’s house last year, but I’d said no, knowing the parents let him do what he wants, nice parents, but this kid needs some boundaries obviously.

The birthday girl’s dad had called the cops, his own colleagues, as well as he should’ve done. There’s just about no other parent in this county that I’d want Sabrina to have been with last night rather than this man, who’d been in harm’s way all week long searching for the cop killer, yet still came through on his daughter’s behalf.

I’m not sure, but I think about three kids were taken into custody last night, two that were with the offender, and truly it’s only through the grace of God that my kids weren’t involved, as this is one of their friends from school, they could’ve been innocent bystanders caught up in it.

A good thing about us straddling the poverty line is lack of discretionary funds for anyone here to use to dabble in drugs. Groceries alone take every penny we have.

What a day it’d turned out to be for us, drenching rains, soccer not cancelled, but kids pulled off the fields during lightening, rain delays that stretched our time on the fields several hours longer than we’d planned.

Daniel ended up going to get Lily for me, I’d later gone to his house to pick her up, marveling at his stand of wisteria climbing up into a mature magnolia tree, a beautiful sight, and Daniel’s strung a hammock beneath it, just as Sarah’d done at her house.

Huge storms all night, knocking out cable TV and later our internet service, so much lightening I could’ve read a book up in my room at midnight with the lights off, thunder so loud, rolling and long that I momentarily feared a tornado blowing me out the second floor into the meadow.

Si! Se Puede!

Neither Marissa, my grandbaby pictured here, nor Alex, my daughter pictured below, have anything to do with today's post, this is just how I function.

"You cussed on your blog," Daniel remonstrated me, in reference to my asterisk laden word referring to the cop killer, but I'm so filled with anger over the senseless loss of an Athen's police officer and the wounding of another.

I'd called Daniel to ask him to run to the Tate Center at UGA to check on Lily at lunch. At a Latina empowerment conference, Si! Se Puede!, I felt like I'd kicked a puppy to the curb, much as when I'd left Gina years ago at Oxford College of Emory on her first night there.

"She's probably fine," I told Daniel, "She wasn't scared, but she was one of the youngest participants and apparently her friends from school are all no shows. I'd just feel better if you touched base with her," knowing he lives two minutes away from where she'll spend the day on the UGA campus, a school I dearly want her to eventually graduate from just as Sarah, Yolie, Chuck, Marcela, Cristy, Gina, Daniel and I have done. The Bulldog Nation's deep loyalty is immense.

My 14 year old severely EBD, bipolar daughter is in Day Two of a less restrictive residential placement. So far so good. It was again an answer to prayers, as I have deep-seated fears and extreme reservations about attempting to have her here with us, knowing in advance, from experience, that someone would be hurt by her.

No matter if I gently correct her behaviors, or even try to appease her in the futile hopes of avoiding an explosion, either way, we've long been the recipients of years of explosive rages, threats, assaults, and attacks.

Miss Kim at DJJ explained to me that in these psychiatric placements they prefer to not press assault charges, as the court system would then be totally clogged up. I understand this, yet I balk from within knowing that she's not been held accountable. In her mind, "Nothing happened to me, so what I did was OK."

On the other hand, numerous bitter experiences have proven to me that consequences do not make much of an impression at all, in regards to improving negative, aggressive and criminal behaviors.

Her younger brother's behaviors have deteriorated substantially in the last month, his Pathways counselor is putting an IFI team into place once again, working diligently on his many severe, dark issues.

I didn't have my lawn tractor back for two minutes before the dadgum belt flew off underneath, nearly sending me over the precipice in major frustration.

CW patiently put it back on, but we spent much of yesterday evening wrestling with it, only getting about 25% cut. It's these little things...

The excellent news is that the cop killer's been arrested. I see it on all the major news pages this morning - the same pages that made no mention all week over our town losing a police officer, and the near fatal shooting of another lawman.

Ray's home school field trip was at Sandy Creek yesterday, Sarah packed a picnic and ate sandwiches there in the woods with her two children when the scheduled activity was over...only to learn four hours later, when the standoff began, that she was less than a half a mile from where the cop killer took hostages.

I spent the evening listening to the police scanner and reading updates as it wasn't resolved until nearly midnight.

Today rain is threatening our soccer games, a big storm just miles to the north of us, Edgar turns 24 years old this morning, we're not often in touch, as my disapproval of some choices he makes, is kinda hard to mask.

OK, deep breath, soldier on, do what needs to be done, I toted Grandma around yesterday, tending to her rental house, hauling lumber for her in my truck, getting groceries for us, getting five kids to different events and obligations last night, Chuy smart enough to be dropped off up at the gate late last night, knowing he was the last one home, locking it, and jogging back to the house. That's thoughtfulness in my book. Usually it's left for me to do.

Vindication and Appreciation

Honestly, this could be Sarah, Hazel or me way back when, beginning a lifetime love affair with books.

A super interesting study written up in the Boston Globe about being alone, which makes me feel less weird as I crave my alone time. Crave it and need it in order to recharge and dive back in headfirst or belly-flopping.

Indeed I'm now reading Woodswoman: Living Alone in the Adirondack Wilderness, a little jealous of her, but the cold up there would do me in within the first five minutes.

But I'd be closer to my sweet son, Jesse, but farther from the other darlings. I best stay here where it's warm, and I don't make a fool of myself up there talking Southern and trying to live on poke sallet and collard greens.

Heeding, Or Not So Much

When life gets stressful, too busy, or even slows down a bit, what's not to like about diving into a book? Possibly passing along this love of books is equally as rewarding. To me, it's hard to tell if this is Sarah or Hazel.

Dr. Mandy again illustrated exactly why my family needs therapy, choosing her professional words so carefully, getting deep into the psyche of one who always responds and reacts aggressively, leaving him with much to consider, which in and of itself is remarkable enough, when one factors in his normal inclination to avoid introspection.

I was amazed and impressed with the way she handled the information shared with her yesterday, probing his mind in such an intuitive manner.

I, however, ended up the evening in a puddle of tears, abjectly frustrated, and with terribly hurt feelings, overwhelmingly so. Sometimes absorbing so much pain in this family will wipe one flat out.

Mr P was provoking a totally even tempered, mild mannered guy who eventually blew his stack, therefore I had to intercede, and the rightly so angry one then lashed out at me, the hapless bystander.

I was so massively furious at Mr. P, who then wouldn't go to his room as ordered, but rather stood like an oozing slug in the hallway, blocking everyone's way, and hissing vile ugliness at whoever passed him by. Everyone dong their level best to not reflexively punch him in the face. Good job kids. Just walk away. Let's not feed into it.

I had to tend to the angry one, who I knew I could reach, yet he too, so overcome by his intense resulting fury, which I totally understood, needed nearly an hour in order to calm down.

Mr Provocateur produces nothing but rage, his ability to push people's emotional buttons in a poisonously toxic manner is stunningly evil-minded. I'm fairly compassionate overall, but the thoughts that rush into my own mind, after an encounter with him when he's in a mood like that, are not pretty.

After all had calmed down, after the smoke cleared, later alone in my room, I cried until my eyeballs swole up, totally frustrated and completely emotionally exhausted from the inglorious role thrust upon me by my own free will choice to try and help children. This bottom line resentment that flows through them everyday, this resentment of me, for doing what no one else would do, is just a little bit taxing, even on a good day.

That cop killer is still not captured. Deputies update Facebook, telling folks to stay away from certain areas, believe you me, Honey, we listen, and heed.

Miriam lives close enough to that part of town to now be too scared to be at her house, and I sure don't blame her, staying here with us, clear on the other side of the other county, out of harm's way...until one factors in the craziness here at times.

Today is one deputy's birthday, and I've known him since he was hardly a toddler, now in his late 30s. I'm highly fretting and worrying over all the men and women out there looking for this piece-of-spit, cop-killer guy who has nothing to lose. Dear God, please keep them all safe.

The slain officer's funeral will be Sunday afternoon, and the police department is asking citizens to line the ten mile route of the processional to show respect. This officer was only 34 years old. All these men and women out in the field, putting themselves in harm's way are so young, at least to me, and I keep praying for their safety, popcorn prayers all day long, bubbling up out of my spirit.

What they're facing this week puts my own pettiness into perspective for me clearly. Chuck's mother lost her best friend to cancer this week, after just losing yet another sister. And I'm crying because my feelings were hurt? Get a grip Big Mama, pull up your big girl panties and soldier on.

Three soccer games, several children going every whichaway all weekend, Lily to the Si!, Se Puede conference at UGA, my lawn mowers need to be picked up from the shop, our grass is knee high, my chore list is lengthy, my To Do list even longer, no time for me to be moping over that which can't be remedied.

Take a deep breathe and just deal with it.

Curtis and Marcela's daughter, Marissa, also looking just like Marcela did way back when.

Or what about Little Yolie here? Mae Mae, Marissa and Hazel reminding me what it's all about. My reality checks. Counting my many blessings.

Enduring Violence

Can anyone imagine the size of my pasta pots? The weight of the water? Carrying such with cracked ribs? Do I have one of these? Do I want one? No, and nope.

I'd asked Sabrina, who is strong as an ox, to lift for me, knowing I can't lift heavy weights for awhile, knowing this faucet filler system would just get broken at Chez Bodie anyway.

I spent all day long yesterday listening to police scanners on my computer from two counties, praying they'd catch this cop killer. I know so many deputies who are out in the field searching, and my heart is full of dread for whichever officer encounters this cop-killing a#*hole.

One of my grown daughters knows the suspect's mother, as she comes into the bank where my daughter works, as did the extremely popular police officer who'd been shot in the face, and fortunately survived. Apparently everyone knows him, a super helpful, mentoring and fatherly man. The officer who died totally broke my heart, as I think of his wife, his young kids, and his parents. How does one go on?

What's it gonna cost you? A line from a David Cooper sermon, back in the early 1980s, before he became Dr. David Cooper, a rousing, motivational, do something for God command that sparked the flame within me that had long been simmering in my mind. Service for others.

I don't know how or why I knew, I just kinda did, that I'd adopt a kid someday. I kept jumping through my own planned, scheduled hoops, accomplishing that which I felt I should do first such as own a house, finish my post graduate degrees, walk out on the guy I'd been with for years and years, and raise Sarah up until she was older. My only regret still is that I didn't wait just a couple more years until she turned 18.

I had no idea how deeply she'd be resented, nor how badly she'd be treated later.

What did it cost me? Mainly optimism.

I look at a couple of my sons, deeply fearful now that I will not be able to keep them out of jail. They're so shockingly unteachable, bucking up in anger every time their behaviors are corrected, so entrenched in their anger and aggression, filled with a genetic component for violence, a predisposition.

A huge fight sprang up yesterday while I was cooking. I'd stepped momentarily into the living room that is open to the kitchen, and two boys started slinging roundhouse punches over a possible dessert item, of which we had plenty, yet again, that was so not the issue.

Sabrina, 16, was caught slap in the middle of it, and for what felt like an eternity to her, as she was the only one trying to pull them apart for maybe ten seconds, wrenching her arm nearly out of the socket, me hollering for help, and diving in like a fool.

But you don't understand. I could be charged with neglect for not stopping a fight. Seriously. It is also a reflex, an automatic response, trying to protect children.

Just as folks later recount in surprise not feeling it when they've been stabbed or shot, so did I not feel my cracked ribs getting hit right then, later I wasn't sure I could even stand up straight again.

The angry one, the same one who'd attacked this same large one on Sunday, was unstoppable. Martin, Mayra and Chuy were not home, and I remember hollering I was gonna call the deputies, at the exact minute I remembered they were all in Athens pursuing a cop killer, and sure didn't need our Mickey Mouse fistfight to tend to right then. CW and JoJo finally tackled down the offender, wrestling him to the floor, while Sabrina and I staggered backwards trying to catch our breath.

The one who'd instigated it took off, "I'm running away!" he hollered, and I limped after him, finally convincing him to sit in Yolie's living room, while I sorted the mess out at home, so pissed off I could hardly see straight, wanting to lecture the other one on assault issues, but knowing he'd shut down, or hit someone. Those are my choices, I've learned this through long, bitter experiences.

I am not optimistic at all over his future. Indeed I fear he'll hurt someone badly in his white-hot fury. His older sister came over after work to take him out of here to cool off, yet he balked at her as well, finally leaving.

My ribs are killing me, the pain kept me awake through the night, a stabbing sense in my back this morning, and me with zero optimism, which hurts worse than cracked ribs.

Should I go press assault charges? Are the juvenile courts tired of dealing with me and my family? Does it appear I can not control the angry ones, when, in reality, I have them attending school and church, and this is way more than anyone else ever tried to do with, and for, them.

Again, I was THE ONLY ONE who submitted a home study on them when they were in foster care. I had no competition, if I did, I'd have backed down, knowing there were other kids who needed a mom. Yet I also unbravely chose not to submit a home study on clearly disturbed sibling groups. I was very careful in my reading of case studies...or so I thought.

This violent one does see Dr. Mandy, does see Dr C., does take medications, is attached to me, deeply so, as deeply attached as he is to his siblings, which is majorly so.

His blind furies that erupt so easily are only one of the problems, his inability to comprehend my words, or Dr. Mandy, or Pastor Chris, or any other adult who gently tries to explain cause and effect...these same discussions just result in him shutting down like a stone.

I pray for his heart to be softened, I truly love him, yet my optimism is severely crippled beyond repair, it seems, dulled by years of kids not learning, of refusing to take advice from anyone, kids who self-sabotage, who are so clearly disillusioned or disenfranchised with real life demands.

Oh Dear Lord, I don't want my own youthfulness back, just some sense of hope and optimism once again... puh-leeze.

And all y'all mamas who live like this, like I do? This study, "Is the Brain To Blame?" sheds some interesting light on these violent outbursts we endure.

I'm quoting part of it here, go read the rest for more information.

One such study was performed at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where psychologists observed brain imaging data from a large group of people with aggressive personality disorder, those with childhood brain injuries, and convicted murderers (3). The project focused on specific brain regions: the orbital front cortex, which plays an important role in controlling impulsive outbursts, the anterior cingulate cortex, which recruits other brain regions when conflicts arise, and the small amygdala, which is involved in producing a fear response and other negative emotions (3). The results showed that in many of the study groups, normal activity in the orbital and anterior regions was absent, while the amygdala showed normal and sometimes even heightened activity (3). The inability of the two cortical regions to successfully counteract the actions of the amygdala may explain why threatening situations can become intense in some individuals (4).

And that cop killer in Athens? Was he predisposed to his murderous violence? Anyone think I don't see parallels?

I deeply fret for society. But my heart was warmed yesterday as a local cafe bakery was trying to feed the many police officers searching for the suspect. We should all be so generous to those brave men and women trying so hard to protect us all.

Prayers for the ACCPD

This is me, I mean Mae, hiding behind the curtains. It's what I do best, as I often find a great deal of solace when I retreat from the world. I desperately need my solitary time, time to regroup and get back on the horse that I perpetually manage to fall off of on a semi-regular timetable.

And, as usual, I later am super chagrined, feeling ashamed of myself in my pettiness, in my self-absorption regarding my large family, as there's also a huge hurting world out there, and we're gonna get over this latest blow. Duh. We always do.

I simply could not believe my eyes when I sat down to my usual late lunch, running pell mell until two in the afternoon, when my growling stomach led me to scramble some eggs I'd gathered from the hen house, plopping in front of my laptop to read the news.

Two Athens cops shot? WHAT? That doesn't happen around here, this ain't Atlanta.

I was absolutely stunned, figuring I must've misread the headlines. One dead?

Police, social workers, nurses, and teachers, the backbones of a normal society, underpaid and over worked, treated like peons and disrespected when they're the keys to normalness. They/we clean up other people's messes. I'm retired from the school system, 13 years in a tough high school in which I shared space with the school resource officer who I totally loved and absolutely adored. He was a huge influence on me, way younger, yet infinitely more experienced and jaded.

I remember once, on the last day of school when the poop usually hits the fan, this cop, his sergeant and our AP, all large, tough, black men - and me, their pet goofy hillbilly, were all subpoenaed to a court case in Atlanta. I rode with them, in the backseat with Marvin, all wide-eyed and as enthralled as a child, leaving behind our whiny principal who was furious that we were all off campus on the potentially crappiest day of the school year.

It's taken me years to calm down from the high wire tension of that school in an adjoining county, we got combat pay, but I eventually retired from this county in which I've lived for 35 years, from a lovely, quiet, high-quality school that five of my children now attend.

I was absolutely shocked and appalled at yesterday's news reports.

Athens schools placed on lockdown, my two grandbabies in kindergarten there at one school, Alexander and Alyssa, and I eventually ascertained they both had gotten home safely, and like most folks around here, I remained glued to news reports, police scanners, and Facebook, which is where I got most of my info all night.

Big Joe was working at the hospital where the injured policeman was taken, right there in the operating room wing, Thank God this man will be eventually OK, but I feel devastated to think about the other murdered policeman's family. The police chief referred to it as an assassination, as the officer didn't even have time to exit his patrol car. Both men were married and with children, both longtime local guys just trying to protect us all.

It just makes me physically sick. Literally I'm fighting tears at the thought. I relate to the mamas of these men, how devastated they must be this morning.

As I picked up my last group from soccer practice last night at nine, Miriam called me, telling me that the police were all over the area in which she lives, bursting into tears in fright.

"Come spend the night over here," I advised her, while debating on ordering her to do so.

Bringing her 100 pound dog, Winston, with her, we locked the gates, turned on the alarms, knowing we're on the other side of the county from where they were then searching for this hideous cop killer, but I was so bothered by everything that I awoke several times in the night to look at news reports on my Blackberry.

This disturbs me on every level, knowing how criminally minded some of my kids can be, how they talk about hustling, and putting one over on folks, knowing their deceptive tendencies, shocked at how they assault each other, and make so many deadly threats, being unable to break the cycles of violence and aggression within them, in spite of so many interventions, resources and therapies.

This cop killer's entire family was described by a former schoolteacher as "mean," Folks around here know each other pretty well.

I do not know many Athens police, I do know a couple, one in particular since he was a little boy, I prayed it wasn't him, as I know his parents, yet I also didn't want it to be anyone, as they're someone's kids as well. This literally makes me feel physically sick.

I'm praying for our police community, just sick at heart over this deadly turn of events. This was not in our county, it happened just over the county line, and all news reports have our county deputies over there working on this as well. I literally can't stop praying for their safety, this is a sicko on the loose with nothing to lose.

Dear Lord, please watch over these men and women in uniform.

100% Shut Down and Certain

I choose photos of my very beautiful grandchildren to distract myself from the task at hand each day. My grandchildren are my reward. "I here Mae Mae!" Hazel excitedly blurted, when she saw Mae coming in the door yesterday, putting just about the only smile on my face the entire day that unfolded brutally. I sure didn't see this coming.

Just as Oswald Chambers, C.S. Lewis, and the editors of Money magazine often write above and beyond my own stunted capabilities for comprehension, so does this entire earth revolve.

Opening cupboards this morning I discovered I might've been reshelving plates a little too brutally yesterday in my immense and overwhelming frustration, what with throbbing cracked ribs, acting out teenagers, and a load of freshly delivered deal-with-this rejection heaped upon us by their own actions.

A resulting consequence to nutting up in public. "You can't act like that in the real world," I explained to those who HATE to be corrected ever at all for any possible reason.

"If the coach tells you to lick the field, you dadgum better do it," I barked at those who'd rebel against the law of gravity if possible.

Kicked off the team, the one arena in which they thrive, if one can overlook the hissy fits and meltdowns. There goes another potential male role model swirling down the drainpipe, waving his Heck NO flag.

I support the authorities, those in charge. I have to model this line of thinking, even though my children have screamed at me, "Why are you ALWAYS on THEIR side?"

Well, it's called the right side, the side that hopefully will keep you out of jail.

I know I only have one reader, who'd called in the midst of this yesterday, and two grown daughters who listened to me caterwauling, I don't even feel like divulging details, suffice it to say I have a teenager, or two, feeling even more rejected by society today, even though it was a direct subsequent result of their own rebellious actions.

That's not how they perceive this cold, cruel world. There will be Hell to pay, and guess who'll have to endure it all?

I tend to bang it out on the keyboard, then dive back into my own protective turtle shell, gates shut and locked, deal with it in my mind, cover all my bases, which include the potential ones at the UGA-Georgia Tech baseball game Daniel'd invited me to right before the spit hit the fan yesterday.

I couldn't go anyway with this tight schedule I run each evening, trying to provide childhood happy memories for my children that they unfailingly rail and buck against every single day out of habit and happenstance.

But that Daniel even thought of including me makes me happy. What almost 25 year old man thinks to include his raggedy, loud, belligerent mother who'd probably wear her out-dated Ryan Klesko T-shirt? Thank you Daniel, this means the world to me.

I'm neck deep in about three scenarios today, trudging through that which I brought upon myself in my own once super naive dream of providing a loving home for older children in foster care.

I will plow through these challenges as well.

I know that I shut down, I know that it is a form of self-preservation, as I mentally regroup and formulate my strategies.

Folks offer to help, and I generally refuse it, as I know that my children will also make them pay for even thinking they could help. Collateral damage illustrated by difficult behaviors. I don't want that for other people. This was my choice to adopt.

Teachers, coaches, youth pastors, and other folks also get stung along the way, for that I apologize, I have been banging my head against the proverbial brick wall for decades now trying to teach folks right from wrong, that they often choose wrong is just a blatant in-your-face rebellion against me, against a mother who would choose to help when all others abandoned them.

I get it, I truly do.

That's why I so often refuse all well-meaning offers of help, please just pray for us, prayers move the hand of God, and God is who we need for emotional healing.

Of this I am 100% certain.

Watch me accidentally on purpose misplace my cell phone today. Now there's a plan.

Dear Lord, please hold my calls today, lemme get a grip.

Parks

Opening the van door while turning my phone alerts to silence, in anticipation of church, I'd barely lifted one foot up, in my careful maneuvering to get into the vehicle without further injuring my cracked ribs, everyone was dressed and ready, when a fistfight broke out at that moment over absolutely nothing.

I turned around, forgetting my ribs, ready to pull 'em apart, a reflex action honed by many years of practice in action but Chuy got there first. Again this was about nothing. Nothing at all. Just overflowing aggression issues that exploded instantaneously, leaving me to wonder how on earth they'll ever survive in the real world without me refereeing constantly.

I bribed the least angry one to just let it go, "I'll reward you for this later, I promise," and as easy as that, the conflagration was finished. A couple of heavy breathing guys getting in the van for a very quiet four minute ride to church.

Holy Cow! Can't we just all get along?

I sat on the back row, as I usually do, but with a painful realization that folks coming in tend to either hug, pat me on the back, or touch me in some form or another. Hey. we're Southern, that's what we do.

I did however eventually manage to make it out of the building without further damage to my skeletal structure, returning home to an afternoon of laundry and a meltdown by JoJo just because his behavior was corrected by me when he hit someone. He stormed off down the hall, threatening to run away and raise himself, because I'm just too mean, as are school staff and police officers.

I informed him that I'd press charges if he left our property without permission. He got a grip.

I did laundry. And more laundry. I've still been thinking about my friend, a former jogger, now in a wheelchair, and I can't begin to tell you how ashamed I feel of myself for my whining about the monumentally pisspoor behaviors around me. I truly value good health and the physical ability to do all of this work.

But goodness knows I'll be griping again soon enough, forgetting this momentary resolve.

Gina's been saving us her coffee grounds and other kitchen refuse, wanting to minimize her own trash output, having watched me make compost for her 20 years of knowing me, knowing of its value to the earth. She's a tiny woman with a tiny amount of vegetative matter, but Honey, it adds up, this she and I know. Oddly enough, it makes us both giddily happy.

Both Sarah and Yolie's families have compost piles as well. Friday night, Tony, Nando and I worked on ours, building an extension out of cinder blocks for starting a new pile, knowing the oldest pile is ready to be spread on the gardens, the second pile still steeping in its own juices, percolating for a late season feeding. I usually put a shovelful in planting holes, knowing it'll nourish the plants all season long, or just sidedress each plant.

Sunday's become her day to drop it off, check on everyone, pay a visit, her sunshiny self a blessing.

Jonathan's sitting on the sofa glowering at me, calling me stupid, refusing school, having already missed the bus on purpose. My blood pressure is rising, I'm so sick of these crazy behaviors, and look at me, already griping about them.

But who lives like this?

It's this abnormality that makes me nutso, the work is doable, the mental health issues are staggeringly resistant to any resources at all.

Jesse's pictured here in a beautiful New York setting, "It's still cold," he'd texted, born in South Texas, raised in Georgia, upstate New York's weather has got to be a challenge. At least it's scenic there.

I'm taking Chuy to an orthopedic doctor to check out his previous injuries incurred while doing elaborate park cores, then hopefully finding time to finish planting cole crops before our summer heat settles in on us all.

So for a more normal life perspective, Sarah blogged...

Crazy Moon Show

Still going on about my family - or more so, my family's story - I just don't think we have a pretty life, I think human emotions are messy, day to day routines are completely redundant, and even after all these years, I'm still shocked and buffaloed by the behaviors I see around me.

My grown kids stress me out, angry and barrelling through life, wanting to prove my conservative theories wrong, my dumb, boring reminders to get a job and follow the straight and narrow. Indeed one told me yesterday after a massive hissy fit on Facebook, "If you're so smart, figure out a way to get rid of me," before storming off.

I was upset that this teenager had written a very ugly, cussing wall post to a classmate, a misdirected perception of what that person may have been saying. High school drama, gossip and mayhem all rolled into a two line vulgar, vaguely threatening sentence that was terribly inappropriate.

"Take it down," I ordered, and, Honey, it was on.

I'd just received a blog comment over my phone that this mama's kids humiliate her enough on Facebook, who needs reality TV? Which prompted giggles from me, immediate guffaws as my original FB ranter just wrote something ugly about me after de-friending me in the hopes I wouldn't see it, yet another narco tattletale around here quietly brought it to my attention before my phone started exploding with texts from grown kids who'd see it soon enough.

Then the culprit stormed out of the house, either going for a jog to cool off or running away, two activities I sometimes can't differentiate between.

OK, I've had kind of a tough week, my cracked ribs aching and screaming in pain, that super moon stirring up gravitational forces apparently, emotions skyrocketing around here, I thought my own head might explode in frustration. Kids using my computers to publicly speak ugliness about the only human being who ever fed, clothed, housed, and loved them in their entire lives.

Usually I can just step back and calmly consider the source of their fury and emotional maelstrom, but the strikingly haunting moon toppled me over into an emotional mess.

Blame it on the moon Big Mama? Seriously?

Jack, Lily, Dubs and Tony were outside baying up at the sky, I joined them knowing that out in the country the stars shine brightly and this'd be a great nature show to watch while my dumb, silly dogs were scurrying around licking everyone, caught up in our excitement, so giddy themselves that Shadow nearly knocked me down while I tried to guard my rib cage protectively.

But the bigger show was yet to come.

By ten o'clock, when I was absolutely dying to get everyone in bed so I could take a blazing hot shower, the Angry One, the Runner Runaway - not to be confused with another teenager who'd choked up angrily over nothing at all and had taken to the road, only to return within an hour - this other Angry One appeared in my room crying, apologizing, and wanting to talk to me. Three activities I'd never embarked upon with this particular kid, who I've not identified in this post at all, not even if it's a girl or a guy.

We talked it out, as a mother and a kid should do, me trying to mask my utter shock at this more normal turn of events. My constant muttering, my evermore prayer, "Thy Will Be Done," that I must repeat some forty thousand times a day coming to pass while I'd simultaneously taken a call from Vanessa, missed one from Pepe, messaging Fabian on FB, and been texting Alex, managing emotions from afar, slap worn out, knee-walking through my tumultuous evening.

This is my Alex here, a picture she'd sent me yesterday, she's had a tough existence, battling her own issues which have been 80 billion degrees past severe. That we even remain in touch is a testament for both of us, she knows I love her, I fret over her, and that I'm still here for her, even after all we've gone through over the last 16 years. She's in her early 20s now.

I'm looking some kind of rough this morning, circles under my eyes, bent over to a tilt to keep my ribs comfortable, my hair sticking out every whichaway. I'm so emotionally whooped, whacked out, that it shows in and on my face. Gotta pull myself together, get the kids up and try to make it to church uneventfully, hoping for no more replay of all these meltdowns, acting out, and hissy fits that have seemingly ruled our weekend.

Again, and I repeat loudly, sputtering, our life is not very pretty, not exciting, it's stressful, and it takes all I have within me to falter, bumble, navigate, endure, enjoy, stagger and waddle through each and every single day.

"Well, Honey," I stressed late last night to the one who'd been particularly ugly to me, "I'm still here, aren't I?" Wanting some kind of Brownie point I suppose.

And this one knows I'll stay.

The others know it too.

Big Headedness

I saw the first snake of the year on the last day of winter slithering across the dirt road heading toward Yolie's house. I stopped the van because I'm not about to run over a black snake while Sabrina jumped out to take its picture, but was afraid to get any closer than from 20 feet away.

I'd overslept until the absolutely unheard of 7:35 this morning.

"That ought to tell you how bad your body needs to heal," Yolie told me, as I thought my emotions have taken way more beating than these two cracked ribs.

Whatever, I only had 10 minutes to get three kids across the county to the other high school for a meeting and Nando to soccer practice, the rest of us to yard sales, wiping the toothpaste off the side of my face when I happened to glance in a mirror.

Chuy nutted up at soccer and got kicked out of practice, while I furiously tried to not yell at him. I was so dadgum irked and tired of him thinking he knows more than a coach, a teacher, a mother, or any other adult.

A lady I knew, now in a wheelchair, silently brought my selfish perspective back into focus rather quickly. I'm healthy and I need to be more appreciative of that fact at least, cracked ribs not withstanding. She looked absolutely gorgeous while I stood there looking and feeling like ten miles of bad road.

I'd again been contacted by a reality show producer from The Learning Channel. I'm still not interested. Money would be nice, but money's not everything, and I sure don't need folks stirring up drama around here. Our normal life is routine, boring, mundane and just has a lot of people, that's not enough to make us any kind of special. I'm not real proud of a lot of my kids at the moment anyway.

I have a big heart, or what's left of it, I don't want a big head.

Paula's new blog can be found here. Neither she, nor I, nor Claudia, nor a lot of adoptive mamas blog some of the depths of Hell into which we've glimpsed over the past years. Again our blogs just give small peeks into very busy lives, the backstory might scare the peaturkey out of people. I know ours sure would.

Ill Pill Parade

This picture was on the Georgia Aquarium website, the most positive aspect of the following post, CJ and Mae with their beautiful cousin, Eden.

And why do I call this a blog post when I clearly type out chapters of the book I'll never publish as I find the memories vaguely unpleasant.

Blogging is cathartic, re-reading and editing would only re-traumatize myself.

I might have to whine for a minute about how deeply painful cracked ribs can be, jeepers, I absolutely felt as if I were being stabbed all night long, totally unable to get comfortable. I believe I might have to follow up on the doctor's orders to Radiology, make sure it's all OK 'cause it really shouldn't be this painful, right?

Poor Nando's gonna have to have another outpatient surgery, we'd followed up on that yesterday, they're now calling it a cyst on his neck, and will do a deeper removal in a week or so.

Nando distracted himself with his GameBoy during yesterday's examination while I delved further into my own happy nerd kingdom, totally enjoying The Accidental Farmer, even though it's weighted heavily toward meat-eating - responsible meat eating - and I found myself underlining this man's beautifully written thoughts.

He compared modern day chicken farming to cramming some 500 chickens into the space of a regular hall closet, making me pat myself on my back for my lengthy chicken moat and large coop. However twisting oneself around like that intensifies cracked rib pain. Good Golly Miss Molly, I'm too restlessly active for this kind of immobility.

We got two new baby chicks yesterday, a far cry from the 25 I'll order this week from McMurray. I was trying to appease Nando, clearly a farmer-to-be, as he adores our chickens and our gardens. "I just like Nature" he told me, hands in his pockets, chewing on some weedy stick.

"Oh Honey, me too," I agreed, the warm sun easing my rib pain. Unable to pass up sacks of leaves, with only the help of a nine year old boy, I filled my truck, intensifying the shooting rib pain, but satisfying a deep longing within me to continue improving my soil, this can only mean more strawberries and blueberries for us all.

No soccer on Thursdays for the first time in the last five or so years, I finally crawled upstairs to my heating pad, ruing the fact that I felt so dadgum disabled, I'd pushed through the pain all day, getting stuff done, but man oh man, did I pay for it later.

The chicks are in a galvanized tin tub on my kitchen counter right where the seedlings had spent January and February, the cycle of life that fulfills me in ways that parenting challenging children has tried to thwart all too often. Life's bumpy, hurtful, difficult, and really hard sometimes, I get a supreme sense of peace and well-being when I'm not disconnected from the food cycle.

These stinging lashes of rejection that folks here feel compelled to dump upon me for their own daily aerobics can really stress a girl out sometimes. Fortunately I quickly process my resulting emotions. Thank you, Miss Bailey, for pointing that out to me many years ago, the knowledge of this ability has long been a plus on my own hidden scorecard.

"I'm calling to ruin your day," a usually supportive Miss Kim announced. The psychiatric facility housing Paloma is discharging her, ridiculously saying her behaviors are not connected to her mental health issues. Funding options dictating society's safety. I spewed my frustration later to Dr. Mandy who was appalled on our behalf.

Fortunately DJJ is valiantly attempting to place her somewhere, my prayer and my goal continues to be pushing hard for family safety here. As Yolie once put it, "Folks just think you have no feelings, Mom," seemingly slinging their darts and arrows at my faltering protective shield.

Really? Those folks who've had to physically restrain her several times in the last couple of weeks think I can protect her potential, and previously assaulted, victims here? This makes my blood boil, and my cracked ribs throb, as if I'd been hit with a baseball bat.

I'm a bit of an ill pill today.

Cracked Ribs

"I don't think other moms trip and fall down while trying to protect their seed potatoes," Daniel dubiously responded to me caterwauling about the pain.

Between my own severe white coat fever, doc shock and not wanting to spend any time indoors, I put off going to the doctor for two days until the pain was intolerable. I apparently do have a cracked rib or two, an anti-inflammation medication and written orders in my truck for extensive radiology over at the hospital if I don't feel better very soon.

Fractured ribs can't be treated anyway so I just have to wait it out.

"Any chance you can sit for a few days?" the doctor asked me, which made me bust out laughing, which hurt me all the more.

Seriously son, have you met my family?

This group of emotionally challenged young'uns who will predictably amp it up in response to mom's predicament? I don't think so.

Best case scenario will be if these medications ease up the pain and swelling.

That's my plan.

I tried sitting still. I'm reading a wonderful book that takes place a few counties from here, The Accidental Farmers: An Urban Couple, A Rural Calling and A Dream of Farming in Harmony With Nature, where the author points out that most of us are so dang frustrated from working all day in the corporate world in order to pay other folks to do that which we'd rather be doing, such as growing our own food, opting out of the agri-industrial vicious cycle.

Well, yeah.

I don't even wanna be sitting and reading about it while the sun's shining, I wanna be outside.

Today I have two appointments that'll keep me away from my gardens, maybe allowing a little time for my ribs to heal up. I'll give it a day, then resume normal activities, hoping the meds'll mask the pain.

It really only hurts when I laugh, or breathe, or move around.

Momentums

How sweet of Ray and Hazel to pose with the tomato cages made by Grandpa years ago. I've had some cages for half of Sarah's life I'm sure, reusable, sturdy and easy enough to harvest the tomatoes from simply by reaching inside.

Defying conventional wisdom of not mulching until the soil warms up, like I have time to wait? I literally slap stuff in the fertile ground and stand back to watch it take off with explosive growth.

Like Claudia's back issue, I hurtled through my garden shed the other day, tripping over something, landing sideways amongst the wheelbarrows, brutally wrenching my back painfully, it only hurts when I laugh, or breathe. The pain woke me in the night, I can only hope I didn't fracture a rib, but what of it?

Too much to do, too little time to wait for whatever it is to heal, yet I dove onto the heating pad immediately last night, when soccer practice was rained out.

If I sit just so...

But I've made so much forward progress these past few years with major repairs, paint jobs, do overs, and projects that I just don't wanna lose my momentum. Gail Vaz-Oxlade writing about shopping momentum that nailed me.

Nailed me in the other way. Reluctant to spend, even to own any more crap that I gotta take care of, versus spending time weeding or cheering the kids on in soccer, I decided after reading her article that I'd always been motivated from within to deliberately thwart this momentum. How cool.

My lawnmower is still on the trailer attached to my truck, my time compressed and deflated over the past two days, today, early this morning, I promised myself I'd drive it to the shop before my meadow is butt deep in tall grasses. I know this guy has a two week turnaround.

Sweet, sweet Travis brought the kids a mighty fine game system that he'd found himself not using as much as he'd originally thought he would. We, as a family, are also again the opposite in that the kids never stopped playing until bedtime, JoJo up at 6 to get another 30 minutes in before I woke everyone else up.

Another buddy, Chris, has brought three truckloads of food by our house, my kids devouring everything in sight. Growing boys, and I have ten of them still at home, 8 are teenagers, consume massive quantities each and every day. CW is a beanpole, yet a big eater, same with JoJo. Allen, at only 140 pounds, can bench press 175, showing off for Chuck last night, who responded to the macho dare-off, by lifting 235 pound repetitions six in a row, leaving Allen open- mouthed in comparison.

"Wow," Allen responded, "That's amazing for an old man," to 31 year old Chuck.

I swanny the kids get up eating every day, continue non stop until bedtime.

Major PMS issues with an unnamed ill pill who thinks it's OK to spout off rudely, no ma'am it sure ain't. I felt as if my rib were puncturing my left lung yesterday, on my left sided back. I was tired and fed up, just as ill tempered as the one with cramps. We had words, she stormed off, door slamming and muttering, while I, as usual, cleaned up my over-used kitchen.

Truthfully, I was just so glad my friend, Terry, got through his heart situation yesterday that nearly everything else seemed so minor and ridiculous in comparison.

Even my van breaking down the next county over didn't send me into a tailspin. What are the chances that a friend from church happened to be there? That their car then petered out, both of us with hoods open, a drizzly rain, surprise on our faces, another hero stopped, and helped us both out.

I'm starting to wonder what a punctured lung feels like, wonder if I oughta go get an xray, a glow-in-the-dark exposure to radiation, should paranoia outweigh pain and good sense?

Serndipitously I just accidentally butt-dialed Ms Carr, Emily to me, but not to the kids, who reassured me I'd just about be dying if I'd punctured my lung. Good, I didn't wanna sit in a doctor's office anyway. I'm planting another variety of lettuce this morning.

Collards

"I could eat a pound of steak for breakfast every single day and it'd put way less stress on my heart than half of your daily demands," I barked at Mr. Demando. Good golly, I thought I'd explode yesterday.

Instead I picked a ton of collard greens, steamed them and put Fire Hot Pepper Sauce, grated pepper Jack cheese, sea salt and balsamic vinegar and ate me about two pounds worth.

I'd even threatened one of my pastors by late in the evening, "If you don't LET me do something for you, I'm gonna come to the hospital and act out like my kids which ought to embarass you."

This man, Terry, has spent countless hours with my family during the past 25 years of strife and turmoil.

Needing a heart cath suddenly this morning, I bounded over to the hospital to sit with his wife and daughters, while Sarah had their grandchildren at her house, tagging me to get Ray to his homeschool P.E. class so she could remain at home.

OK, good, I had to be busy or I'd be fretting about him. All is well now, surgery over, great prognosis.

At The Moment

Am I the only one happy here with the Daylight Savings Time change? I've been reminding kids to get up for the last 30 minutes.

It is so easy around here at the moment. Few conflicts, not many issues bubbling up. Rain coming in tomorrow, I'm hauling off my lawn tractor to the repair shop, not wanting to even spend those very few minutes doing so, in my truck, and out of today's sunshine. I'd so rather be digging and planting.

A reader, Jocelyn, tells me that their back roads are snow plowed with the resulting snow banks being higher than the school bus. Unfathomable to me, yet I remind myself how miserable our sweltering summers would seem to those unaccustomed to breathing in hot, wet air.

Now, mid 70s today, is such an easy time to get the hardest of the outside work done, now while it's still cool enough to function, and I'm not totally bathed in sweat. Being scorched by the sun, hotter than blue blazes, all that terminology doesn't even begin to do justice to our being so deep-fried by the Southern sun.

I don't even mind the hot days, being this productive just makes me incredibly happy.

Having kids in a great mood, makes me even happier.

Who Doesn't Like To Play In The Dirt?

Sabrina'd taken an axe to an old root, being a not too prissy teenager. There's just something about working outside that does one's heart some good.

Sometimes, when I've been as busy as I've been lately, I find myself eventually so tired that I can hardly crawl up the 14 stairs to my bedroom, every muscle aching, every bone protesting, but my Big Back Garden looks better than it's looked in 15 years. When CW was born, soon to be followed by Lily and Jack, plus numerous toddlers with issues, I kinda then fell behind.

Holding and caring for babies and toddlers takes 40 out of every 24 hours, now that everyone here, with the exception of Sabrina, doesn't remember ever not living here, our dynamics are very different.

I've been greatly emancipated over the years, and I sure do like it. A lot.

Yolie and Chuck are gonna babysit for me so I can get to the Braves Opening Day Game with Daniel in a few weeks.

We got everything accomplished yesterday, everything we'd planned and more, all the dogs got their rabies shots, all soccer practices were accomplished, yard sales, garden work, and we ended the night at the Night of Blue Lights to Jack's utter and complete fascination.

Being surrounded by deputies from every county sure enough made me feel safe.

It's now Daylight Savings Time, and there's warm weather in the 7 day forecast, hard not to be happy.

Deeply Grateful To Have Been Born Southern

"You want to go to opening day!?!?"

On my Facebook wall from Daniel, music to my ears, but, as usual, everything depends on me getting a babysitter and our soccer schedule.

What is it with me lately and all this over-booking?

I just saw that the Fire Department is hosting a Rabies Clinic today, el cheapo style, that means me, gotta figure out how to drag my 11 year old chow/lab mix, Lizzie, who weighs around 80 pounds of stubbornness, plus the other six rambunctious dogs.

There's a Blue Light Special this evening, at dark thirty, competing deputies will run their lights and sirens, Hog Heaven for my son, Jack, gotta make this work for him after three soccer practices, putting all the plants back in the greenhouse, and more wood chip hauling.

Several yard sales this morning that the kids are hounding me about, yesterday I'd happily slipped off by myself while they were at school. I really love Friday yard sales, which means less people, and I'd bought two Nike UGA Sweatshirts for my sons, plus a beautiful book on Atlanta's Piedmont Park, grand total spent was two bucks, and, as a bonus, I'd found sacks of leaves, bagged up and waiting for me in that same neighborhood. I filled up my truck bed, grinning like a happy, gassy fool.

Chuck had the Bubbas over again last night for Movie Night, his attention over them is priceless, his patience with them is amazing.

Why does Scotty have Cheerios on his face? It was a youth group activity, no further explanation needed, I suppose. (Photo Courtesy of Elizabeth Tasker)


I was born, a hundred years ago, just a few miles from the beautiful Piedmont Park, more importantly, in terms of thrilling me, I was born not that far from the coolest ball park in the entire world.

When I'm blessed enough to be able to attend a game there, I look slightly towards the east, knowing my parents had the good sense to birth me just a couple miles down the road, right down Ponce De Leon in Atlanta, here in the South. Anywhere else and I'd be considered an oddball I'm afraid.

Daniel has often remarked that he couldn't imagine not being of the Bulldog Nation, he's thanked me many times for having him grow up right here in the shadow of UGA, which was destined to become his alma mater.

Dancing

Great news via the telephone late yesterday afternoon, "It's a benign cyst, no further action needed, let's check on it again in a year."

Something that could've been testicular cancer, or some other malignancy, in a teenager turned out to have such a simple explanation, an easy finish to what could've been devastating, and it is such a relief.

"Who came to the Fifth Grade Breakfast and to both performances of this Third Grade Musical?" the principal asked a crowded gymnasium last night.

About ten out of 400 raised their hands, me being one of them. Do I know how to have fun, or what? Could Nando be any cuter? He is such a good kid.

A two hour psych eval process in the middle of my day, plus errands kept me hopping all day, our temperatures plummeting last night, prompting me to again drag in all the seed flats from my unheated greenhouse.

In my three spare minutes yesterday, I'd plopped myself down onto Dr. Mandy's overstuffed plush waiting room chair to read for just a few seconds in The Resilient Gardener, so very impressed with the entire book, but feeling like a reluctant slow reader in first grade, in that I've been on the same book for an entire month, making very little headway, but jeepers, my To Do list claims every waking moment it seems.

Yet I remain so far behind on everything. My irritation level teetered on a minor eruption yesterday as I vacuumed the family room, picking up after two emotional twins who seem genetically unable to ever comprehend that their shoes and book bags belong in their room, both of them nearly sobbing in frustration each time I remind them to do so.

Again I hear myself telling them that no woman's ever gonna put up with being their handmaidens, no woman wants another child in a man's body to raise, how will they ever get a date? Then I remember the term 'perception'. Dr. Mandy has explained to me that all they hear is that they are unlovable, they perceive that singular thought only. They do not understand the 'carry your own load' theory of a relationship, what I'm trying to get across to them.

I listen to Dr. Mandy rephrase as she asked Mr. P, "How do you think that made So and So feel?"

Mr. P, who visibly struggles with verbal explanations, empathy, and other higher order thought processes shrugs, but there's a glimmer of comprehension in his eyes as he works through the words in his mind.

Psychological evaluations are, fortunately for those of us who've adopted from the foster care system, are completely financially covered by Medicaid. I've had them done on almost all of my children, certainly more so in this last half of my adoption career. It's necessary in order for me, and for other professionals, especially teachers and counselors, to best map out the interventions that will be needed along the thorny way.

Before children can qualify for much of the help they'll need, they must have a psych eval that's less than one year old. Updates should also be done as needed.

Suspecting brain damage, or a traumatic brain injury, in one of my children, one who is now in prison and acting up severely there, my caseworker had steered me to a neuropsych eval which took two days, and was fascinating to someone like me who wants all the answers, yet rarely finds them it seems.

Back then I still worked in the school system, using my personal days tending to this one severely disturbed child who eventually spent five years in a state mental hospital, having been kicked out of every program here for being too disturbed. How is that even possible?

That particular sib group has been an incredibly challenging set to parent. One in prison, and I fear, with all his supremely severe mental issues, that it will be nearly impossible for him to ever function properly in even a low level society situation, another one who is sociopathic, another severely challenged one, and a totally normal one.

They were all 8 and under at the time of adoption, yet had been severely neglected, children of an inhalant abuser...anyone else wanna factor in the organic brain damage that would do to a child in utero? That's criminal abuse and neglect in my book.

Do NOT think that because you adopted young children that the mental health issues will not surface. I once must have ordered a big bowl of Stooopid for breakfast and eaten the entire thing with a bent spoon to have been so dumbly naive. Some of my most disturbed children came to me at a very young age, while their older siblings thrived.

I stumble along....searching, struggling, praying, working, making appointments, finding resources, and seeking answers, help and strategies.

And every time I use the word 'searching', I get this song in my head. Yep, this is the kind of music I love. Tell me that doesn't make you dance while working?

Good thing too, as I have a boatload of work to get done today. I might as well dance.

Send Me A Good Phone Call Please Lord

And the tide can turn in the blink of an eye. When I get the radiology results, I'll later disclose the hilarious conversation that led up to me sitting in this waiting room with Big Joe and Nando. Everything unrolled within the previous 20 hours of me being informed of this potential problem.

"Honey, let's get you to a doctor," I reassured the visibly scared teenager.

Switching gears, I'm against mammograms anyway, even losing a sister to breast cancer has not deterred me from my stance, I believe the evidence is clear. Fortunately there's Plan B, a thermogram, which I was scheduled for yesterday first thing. A fascinating concept that immediately indicated I had nothing to worry about at all, it also shows the lymphatic system and carotid arteries.

"You're totally fine," the lady informed me, remarking however on my upper body muscular system that flared up bright red on the thermogram images. "That's from hauling wood chips all week," I explained to her. Lord Have Mercy, wheelbarrow loads of wet wood chips weigh about the same as a whale. Of course my muscles appear stressed.

I flew out that door and ran Martin to the orthodontist appointment, just in time to later get yet another son to another doctor to check on this issue that he warily told me about the night before. This doctor immediately sent us to the hospital radiologist, hoping and believing for the best. A malignancy would be extremely rare, we should hear something this morning about it.

I'd texted Big Joe, knowing he was just over in the Operating Room area of the hospital, my text was as graphic as the original conversation had been the night before.

"What the heck?" Big Joe had barked, coming to where I was, so I could explain further. By the time Joe got to the wing in which I was standing, I was conversing with a guy who'd addressed me by my second married last name. Guess I hadn't seen this man in a couple of decades. Dude, it's Bodie.

I'm not overly worried at the moment about my son, why borrow trouble? I'll wait for the phone call that's gonna be hard to even answer as I have a Fifth Grade Breakfast with Jack this morning, and a Third Grade Musical with Nando both at 9:30 today and 7 tonight, while also scheduling a psych eval for Mr P needing a two hour time slot to work on that at 11:30-1:30.

I'll get a breather in the early afternoon to tend to all the chores I didn't get done yesterday, as I was literally running from doctor to doctor, 8-5, all dang day, fed everyone, and got 'em to Youth Group after tutoring.

Jack, Tabby and Nando were with me at the hospital while Joe was showing me some videos he had on his phone of a couple of his last conversations with Grandpa.

I was shocked to see how bad my dad looked in his last month on earth. I'd forgotten the severe weight loss and rapid aging from that nasty Pulmonary Fibrosis. In my mind's eye, my dad was healthy and smiling, talking and laughing, and it was with a shock and utter reality check that I watched these short videos.

Jack stared wide-eyed at Joe's phone, it was nice to hear Dad's voice, but Jack still struggles so much with missing Grandpa's daily contact, conversations, and company.

Walking Shoes

A moment of silence please as my well worn shoes bite the dust, the entire bottom fell off yesterday, shoes I'd gotten out of some bag years ago, shoes that'd done me very well.

My third 504 meeting this past month resulted in a higher tier of academic intervention, here we find ourselves on the third rung, where the fourth leads directly into special education, in this case, it'll be behavioral based.

"He absolutely refused to do his work," a teacher informed me, "heck it was coloring a map, what kid doesn't want to color?"

Well it'd be this same kid who wouldn't even get out of bed to go to school for half of an entire school year, a kid who repeated fifth grade due to his truancy, and a kid who's quite severely disturbed. A kid who is slipping through the cracks, but not without the many whole-hearted efforts of adults who are working to rescue him from what may potentially be an impossible endeavor.

My schedule yesterday went exactly the same as the evening before. The tutoring pickups and soccer practices are a huge time sucker, but I'm all for it, in that it's all positive for them. Monday and Tuesdays are gonna keep me on the road past nine o'clock, but for the first time ever, it frees up Thursday evenings for now.

I took three out of four kids to an ice cream joint for their 6th anniversary, Scotty was at soccer practice so I got him a real ice cream milkshake, as a cone wouldn't have made the trip. The next time six years passes, Sabrina will be coming out of college, and Scotty out of high school, Nando will be in high school and Tabby almost there.

I know for a fact how fast six years spins by.

To have had my last adoption be such a wonderful sibling group, now ages 8-16, has been nothing shy of nice. A Thank God moment, but nothing spurs me on towards adopting again. I believe I'm totally played out, given a release by God to end this part of my life after I finish it up properly.

We had a Groundhog Repeat Day of JoJo screaming at the wood chip pile and at any dog who dared to look at him, most noticeably Shadow who kept jumping playfully all over him. I just kept on working while JoJo threw a fit about having to think of any kind of future that involved any aspect of any kind of physical labor.

All of my seedlings are now out from under grow lights, residing in the greenhouse, but will have to be dragged in for any frost events still to come.

Scotty asked for his picture to be on my blog today and it's an easily fulfilled request. Done.