Friday Night MLB Lite

A blurred picture of Tabby watching her older birth sister, Memaw, cheering.

If I nowadays don't have to put postage on ten or so bills a month, thanks to online bill pay from my bank, I'm saving about $5 a month, times 12 is easily at least $60 annually, times ten years, there's $600 in my pocket from one simple step.  Applying that measly $600 to a principle only mortgage payment would eliminate a chunk of interest, thus further stretching an original save a stamp amount.

I harp on this constantly, hoping to inspire my young'uns who are often so completely clueless, yet such know-it-alls.

I do this on everything, over-think every single penny, because I couldn't have raised 39 children otherwise.

The kids and I decided not to pay $60 per high school student for the All Sports Pass this year, as we're not sure we used it enough last year to justify the expense of 8 X $60 = $480.  Ouch.

I only go to the football games to support Sabrina's cheer leading, last night Scotty, Jack, Nando, Tabby and I waited until the third quarter to show up as by then it's free, saving us another $7 X 5 = $35.

That'd buy two sofas, a skateboard, and ten outfits at a yard sale.

I did come up with $28 for Martin, Allen, Chuy and Lily who wanted to go, CW, JoJo and Tony made other arrangements that worked for them.

Then while sitting there at the football game, 49-0, a win for our high school, I was glued to an app on my phone MLB Lite as I was keeping track of the Braves-Nationals game since we're tenuous in the wild card race.  Daniel and Megan were there at the Turner Field cheering on the Braves who, fortunately, did win at the last minute yet again.

Opening a new jar of natural peanut butter, you know where the oil is on top, I naturally spilled it down into my shoes, thus making for a greasy day.  Who does that?  Uncoordinated, in a hurry yoyos, that's who.

The One Who Must Control Everything was again 10-13'd to a psychiatric facility, aggression towards staff members.  Just hearing about it made my heart slam, as I'd long been the one to whom all aggression had initially been directed.  As a parent, there is absolutely no way to maintain safety for other children when dealing with this behavior constantly.  Usually they were the first targets of rages, me jumping in to protect them, thus escalating a situation when, in reality, with normal reasoning skills, it should've been defused.

Instead of PTSD, a reader termed it Daily Traumatic Stress Disorder to which I totally agree.  It always came out of nowhere and took us all down.  I can handily state I spent approximately ten solid years in that zone and it's exhausting, demoralizing, debilitating, frustrating, frightening, and impossible to endure.

Add to it, the revolving door of professionals with chipper, yet dumb ideas like sticker charts.  Or, "What did you do to trigger this?"

Like even if I were capable of triggering this, why would I be idiotic enough to do it?  Hello?

That the professionals now are struggling with her behaviors, when they're having to 10-13 her?  Do they now comprehend? In the last 28 months there's been countless 10-13's and maybe six residential placements, yet a raggedy old lady with a host of other children and their emotional issues was condemned for being unable to curtail these rages, assaults and attacks?

Clearly I've not yet been able to release all my bitterness, have I?

I shudder to think of her future as an adult when there are no other adults to help keep her safe from herself.

Just watch any of the countless shows on cable TV channels regarding prison especially those of the criminally insane.  Those folks didn't just get that way upon adulthood, problems, issues and challenges begin festering at very young ages, even when excellent professional help is available, it doesn't necessarily work...because it can't work.  It can't change genetic predisposition nor fundamental neurological brain miswiring.

It is ultimately very, very sad.

Fortunately it is only a small percentage of the general population, but might seem exceptionally high in the adoption world as the children of those adults often face the same issues, thus the need for foster care and adoption.

All those men and women in prison or psychiatric facilities or drug rehab or homeless on the streets - where do you think their children are living?  Either with relatives or in foster care, possibly adopted.

I just have to draw deep breaths and concentrate on those who do want my help.

Gina, 34, came by to eat some comfort foods and vent about her stressful workday, nothing like Mama's refried pinto beans with fire hot pepper sauce on flat breads that were warmed on a black cast iron skillet.

Oh dear girl, you know I understand stress.