Fresh

Quit your dumb, boring chores right now and go watch Fresh this evening as it's only free online through tomorrow.

It is wonderful! Hardly more'n one hour, yet so inspiring.

Tony's Photography

Bringing up just one child in the early 1970s was very different than my life now in this new millennium with 38 other kids. Even my first dozen kids in the early 1990s before cell phones, texting and Facebook was a vastly different time zone and experience.

Sarah beautifully writes about mind blowing moments that counter the many times she seems to say 'no' to tv and video games, but I gotta remind her that she was raised with the same audio-visual restrictions in that we rarely owned a TV, we didn't drink sodas, eat meat, or buy bags of grocery store cookies, and she turned out right well now, didn't she? Raised to become a foodie, inspired to read and be creative, to produce, not to shop as a hobby, she likely has vague memories of me cutting out Simplicity patterns from swaths of fabric on the hardwood floor, and she most certainly remembers all of the gardens I'd grown.

I'd not yet gotten back to another mom out in the midwest, Amanda, who'd asked me about having to give money to grown kids to feed their kids. The grown kids intimidating her with, "Oh really? You have money for going to football games, but not any to give to me for gas or food for my own kid?"

Likely any money we, as parents, would dole out to grown kids would just go for alcohol or other mismanaged bad choices.

Call me cynical.

I listen to Dave Ramsey often, and parents call into his radio show all the time asking what to do about their grown kids not managing money properly. All the time.

"Would you give a drunk a drink?" he responds.

"Well, no." the perplexed parent can almost be heard thinking aloud.

"Do not enable poor money management," he always tells them. "Grown kids need to figure out the world."

Our grown kids are often more emotionally handicapped, unable to connect the dots, mis-wired and confused, prone to self-medication or alcoholic tendencies. I get that. I truly understand, but I also know that they have a long life ahead of them to start beginning to understand. I cannot always be there, I'll die first as I'm older, they must learn to function.

I'll give out groceries for them, or better yet they can stop by for dinner, I will not give gas money, as they'd just use it to cruise around aimlessly versus job hunting. I'll send you through college if you want, but I won't give out cash, as it'd be blown, and the bottom line is that I just don't have any spare money.

Duh. I'm raising a boatload of kids and it is a very expensive endeavor.

Another mom I know is also being pressured this way and her cortisol levels shot up in response, levels she'd hoped were healing, but the trauma revisited her this week.

My parents did not enable us four kids either. If I wanted cash, and I most certainly did want some, I'd take on a double shift at Shoney's, back when I was 16 and childless. I'd wait on more tables, because I understood the connection between wages and work. I had zero sense of entitlement. I'd observed my parents constantly sacrificing to raise all of us.

Times seem to be a bit different now. There's a bunch of 30 year old whiny wussies living in their parent's basements playing video games, and a bunch of single moms getting pregnant and coining the term, "my baby's daddy." Girls, that ain't no daddy figure. That's a deadbeat bum.

Folks living on potato chips and not knowing how to grow a potato. Get real folks.

I sound like such an old fart. This I know, but, Honey, it works. Work works. Hard work pays off.

Yesterday I had 16 people for supper. No biggie, I used to routinely have 26 every single night of the week,so I'd cook for 30. If most folks knew they had that many people coming for dinner they'd stress for a week about it. It's a dance for me, a routine exercise, why I don't need a gym membership. I'd gotten a call in the middle of it, news I didn't want to hear, but it was not unexpected. I went back into the kitchen thinking about it, draining the pasta, just overall very grateful that I wasn't dealing with the crisis, that trained professionals were handling it.

I know someone would've been hurt here...had it occurred here. Been there, done that for waaaaaaay too long.

Yes, I gave up on two teenagers. I surrendered. Call it what you will. I prefer to look at it as me not standing in the way of them receiving the help they need. A positive spin? Maybe. But a necessary one. The light heartedness now of my home is palpable.

I'm planning a beach trip this summer now, knowing that no one will rage there and damage other people's property. No one will try their best to ruin it for everyone. No one will attack others. I feel deeply guilty that I let it go on for so long, that so much family time was completely destroyed, but I know in my heart of hearts that I was then doing my best, that I was trying, trying and trying, I kept opening different doors for these children, not finding the correct one, did I do so now? I can only hope so.

I know that last night 16 folks sitting at my dinner tables, that had home grown flowers in vases, were very happy. My original caseworker used to remark on the amount of fresh flowers I always seemed to grow and to have around the house, that practice fell by the wayside for many years, but I'm back on the job now. Thank you, faithful and beautiful daffodils.

Sarah changed the ring tones on my phone since she Yolie and Grandma call me often, yet hesitate to do so, knowing a ringing phone sends me into paroxysms of severe heart palpitations, dreading bad news, problems, challenges and issues to deal with some how some way.

Sarah also explained to me what a big deal it was on Instagram that one of Tony's pictures made it to the popular page. "This is big, Mom, not some Mickey Mouse Facebook kind of popular, but a national thing. I don't think you grasp the enormity of it."

Tony has CP, it has limited him socially and developmentally in a pretty big way over the years. It has hindered him for 16 years. But this tree picture below, taken from his phone up at the high school, was the 'popular' photo on Instagram, the water photo was taken on the St Pete Beach this Christmas, and is the screen saver now on my phone, as it calms me remarkably. Great job Tony, I'm very proud of this gift you are demonstrating.

I may be slow to answer comments, but I promise you that when they come in over my phone, I read them and hit publish, usually spending the rest of the day dwelling on y'all's thoughts. This morning I awoke to read this one, from a lady called Mama Sarah. I greatly appreciate y'all's input. I really do.

Now Available

Dr. Brenda McCreight's ebook is now available here.

It's short and spectacular, boosted me out of my own doldrums. I don't only recommend it, I kinda gotta insist you read it if you wanna recover.

Meet The Parents

And the bonfire continued into the next day, after church, but I soon needed to head to town to finally meet Daniel's fiance's parents who live about two hours west of here.

Delightful, absolutely delightful. They're as pleased with Daniel as I am with Megan, to have something seem so incredibly right all around is an amazing feeling. A mutual admiration society. I love it.

Marcela, 30, babysat my other kids, Sabrina's 17 in less than two weeks, and is totally capable of babysitting, my teenagers don't need a babysitter, I just think it's prudent and wise to have an adult in a supervisory position if I'm not home, Grandma had come with me.

I like the over 30 cutoff age as well. Gina came by, thus boosting the supervision while I was out. My five oldest boys were up in their bedrooms totally snoring, after staying up all night over at Chuck's playing Guitar Hero.

When I had challengingly impossible kids still here at home, only Sarah or Yolie were willing to babysit, the fact that they knew the kids better, knew the severity of the issues, and how to disengage, was a plus, but they too were always very wary regarding the underlying threat of danger.

Tabby's joining Art Club, carrying her $75 tuition check proudly and excitedly to school this morning. She's nearly giddy at the thought that no disturbed sibling will prevent her from attending this simply because they had that ability to shut down the family at will. Nor will the resulting artwork be angrily destroyed. I'll be allowed to praise her without a subsequent explosion. Yes, that was how we lived, tiptoeing on eggshells, land mines everywhere, sometimes not triggered, other times surprisingly so, leaving us all constantly bewildered, stressed out and damaged.

We are all inwardly shattered over it, wary, unwilling to completely trust our own family safety now, me included, as I could wake up and find it not to be so.

"Whaddya call it when soldiers come back from war?" a teen asked me yesterday.

"Post traumatic stress syndrome," I answered.

"Think we have it?" they countered.

Well, duh.

I didn't work a lick yesterday, no painting, no planting, no heavy lifting, just laundry, kitchen and other minimal routine chores, I'd stayed in my monkey suit after church in order to go meet the parents, only to find that Megan's darling mom and I prefer the exact same brand of pants full-time. I ate so much that I wished I'd had the aforementioned comfortable pants on, so full that I skipped supper, didn't snack before bed, still haven't eaten anything since our late lunch yesterday, still so full it hurts.

Man, if I ate like that all the time I'd soon weigh 400 pounds. Yolie'd gotten cupcakes, red velvet ones, that must've had a stick of butter in each one from a bakery that was so delicious I'd swooned. It was Megan's 24th birthday.

Her dad is a hoot, Daniel's crazy about him, "the Dad I never had," he's told me. Megan's dad has never had a son, so this is good to go.

I could've not adopted my kids, let them wait it out in the very faint hopes that a two parent family would've come along, but statistics back me up in that there are few older sibling groups that ever even get adopted at all, much less by two parents.

I know a two parent family is God's best, but I'm better than no parent. In the adoption of older children, that there aren't two parents to manipulate, or to triangulate, is sometimes better anyway. My well bonded kids would've done great with two parents, the others not so much.

This is the hand we were dealt. Let's deal with it. Moving on.

I've had many married women over the years to confide in me that if it weren't for their husbands not wanting to adopt, they'd have done what I did. "I'd have me a house full of children," I'm often told by other women. I don't think any man has ever said that to me along the road.

But whatever. I'm just so happy that my kids and grandkids are safe nowadays, that I'm not trying, and failing, to manage behaviors that need a professional staff.

Allowed To Have Fun

Oh my Goodness! Yes, to the exclamation mark, it's allowed when one has lived in darkness for so long, clouds are lifting, my kids are laughing and happy go lucky, one of them confiding in me yesterday how deeply afraid they'd been for so long regarding one who isn't with us right now. Revealing threats I'd known nothing about, actions that sparked deep deep fears.

Again everyone seemed to gravitate to the room in which I was painting, two guitars playing, 43 questions, statements and comments per minute, dogs wagging their tails in happiness. Shatter bordering on having an enamel coated tail and rear chassis.

I emptied and painted Lily's entire closet a glossy bright white, it had not been painted in 19 years. It went from a dull cream to a dazzling spotlight, walls repaired, everything wiped down first, Lily's in Hog Heaven. While I was at it, I painted two dressers there to match. I'm on a roll, smiling all the time, happy as a clam. Safety IS all it's cracked up to be.

I planted Swiss Chard seeds outside in a garden bed with two varieties of leaf lettuces and Kale. Took me two minutes to get it done, but it'll provide some great eating. Today I wanna slam the sugar snap snow peas in the ground, plus beets, carrots and radishes.

I confiscated two cell phones as an attitude adjustment factor, one for a curfew violation, the other for screaming at me - the one who pays the cell phone bills. Hello?

We ended the night at a bonfire down at Yolie's house where all my kids behaved perfectly, the five older boys staying later to watch a movie with Chuck, crashing in their living room to spend the night. I just called Yolie to send 'em home, we need to get cleaned up for church.

I gotta put the videos from Facebook on here, Yolie got some good ones of my sons dancing and carrying on...because we can nowadays.

"When I drove up," Gina remarked, "I saw a bunch of happy people." Such a change in our family mood with the danger not hovering anymore. We are allowed to be happy as a family, allowed to move forward, we are not controlled like the robots we'd found ourselves becoming due to irrational behaviors. We'd been forbidden for so long from having, or expressing, pleasure. That's just sad.

Sarah's family had traipsed through the woods with flashlights to roast marshmallows, their very large bloodhound, Elvis, going inside Yolie's house while her bigger mastiff, Ella, watched in surprise.

Boss from church came by, he of the five daughters, brought one over as well, soaking up the testosterone provided by the nine sons still living here with me. Even Grandma joined us. It had been a warm day, but was a cold night, the fire so hot that a bunch of kids stood there in t shirts, me in a coat though.

This picture below is JoJo standing in front of me, the bonfire behind him glowing through his ears. Seriously.

Picking Flowers For Mom

What turns people into criminals? In the longstanding debate over nature vs. nurture, new research published in the journal Criminology suggests that genes play a key role in determining who leads a life of crime and who stays on the straight and narrow.

The research, conducted by University of Texas at Dallas criminologist J.C. Barnes and colleagues, analyzed the genetic and environmental influences on criminal traits of 4,000 people. The researchers discovered a strong link between genes and criminality.

"If we're showing that genes have an overwhelming influence on who gets put onto the life-course persistent pathway, then that would suggest we need to know which genes are involved and, at the same time, how they're interacting with the environment, so we can tailor interventions," Dr. Barnes said.

One of my teenagers needed me yesterday afternoon, knowing he was unable to complete the school day, he had a teacher call me and avert a problem. He desperately needed Mommy Time, at least that's what we call it. He sat at the kitchen table and poured out his deep, inner thoughts to me. Yeah, a teenage boy. I sat and listened, he ended it later by crying over Grandpa, a "Why did he have to leave us?"

This son is part of a sibling group that has had many brushes with the law. This article caught my eye regarding genes and criminal behavior, and I'd been thinking about it all day long as I went about my business.

This particular son has greatly improved over the years, he participates in therapy, sees both a psychologist and a psychiatrist, he's been very challenging to raise, but has a completely likeable inner core. He's very popular everywhere he goes.

I've always known my life choice, my calling, in raising older sibling groups wouldn't be easy. I'm a work horse, I can do this...until there's family safety that has been totally and dangerously compromised. This kid would never hurt me, this I know, even in his darkest, angriest moments, and there've been plenty.

One of his older brothers made me uneasy, we had many nights when even the butter knives, hammers, and screw drivers would be taken out of the house by me and hid in the woods. Another older brother of his was easy to raise, one sister was a mess, the other wasn't so.

"So our sibling group was normal but just kinda messed up? he questioned me yesterday, knowing there weren't serious mental health issues, behavior concerns out the wazoo certainly, but, hey, that's fixable, right? "Were any other groups like us? He then verbally named every older kid and questioned their overall back story.

I absolutely totally understand their trauma, we discussed this for about an hour yesterday, he knows I get it. He knows I love him. Since he realized it wasn't me he should be angry about, he switched gears and started questioning me about my own mortality. "Do you still go see your doctor? Will your heart hold out? If I lost you, I'd die," he wailed, thinking about Grandpa.

Irony again, as he often used to blame me for a great deal of unrelated issues.

Again, I get it. I know he's confused. If I struggle emotionally with the unfairness of life, how much so for the kids?

I'd spent the morning hauling in groceries, there's no other appropriate word for the amount consumed around here each day. It is a haul. Blasting praise and worship music through my headphones, scrubbing out my brain from negative emotions and fears and stressors, I planted 8 flats of 72 cells each containing four varieties of tomatoes, four of bell peppers, jalapenos, acongaguas, and Italian eggplants (Blanca Rosa), all heirlooms, one flat of lavender, and I barely even made a dent in the amount of seeds I have sorted by planting date in drawers.

"By date?" JoJo hollered in disbelief yesterday evening after school. "You're such a nerd. Who even keeps planting dates in their head?"

He walked away chuckling, headed to the X Box 360 that Travis had blessed us with that has served to greatly calm his emotions surprisingly, only to come back and tell me that the world is completely and neatly divided up by nerds like me, athletes like his own sibling group, and then the artistic, musical folks like Lily. "Man, can that girl sing, or what?" he asked in admiration, having been Lily's classmate since Pre-K, her brother for 11 years of their lives. They are both 14 years old now, both in ninth grade at the high school.

Back then JoJo hadn't lived here that long, Lily was born here, and her self-confidence made JoJo cling to her emotionally. Grandpa used to be the one who'd drive to Pre-K and pick them up each afternoon as I still worked in the school system back then. The Pre-K photographer had even photographed them sweetly together, likely knowing it'd capture my heart and make me wanna buy it. Well, duh.

It's time to sow cole crops outside, Hazel yanked daffodils up out of her acreage and brought them in to Sarah, informing her with utmost importance, "Lily does this for Bita! I want to pick flowers for my mom too." When Sarah was Hazel's age we used to tell each other, "Let's go watch the garden grow," an activity in which we'd stare in admiration at the garden beds and anticipate the harvest. An intentional, thoughtful, mindful activity practiced throughout her childhood that I know has had a profound, very positive affect on her. How could it not?

Now an educated Foodie, a nerd, an accountant for Pete's Sake thus making her an A+ nerdite according to JoJo's assessment, which reminds me that Monday is the time to sign up for Spring soccer already.

"My relief at it all even makes me feel guilty," my Methodist Preacher Kid's inner voice seeped out to Dr Mandy.

"Who wouldn't feel relief to now feel safe?" she countered. Relief is normal? Hey, who knew?

I always have processed my emotions rapidly, even disappointments often quickly fizzle away , evaporating in the exhaust smoke as I'm already gone, as my fast paced mind moves on, diving into projects and things I like to do, never bored, usually engrossed in something.

The elementary school principal, the one who'd had to clear her entire schedule during one difficult year with The One Who Must Control Everything, having to try and monitor, manage and dispel negative, disruptive, and sometimes dangerous behaviors, pointed out to me yesterday that when kids are in non-family placements, they very often will do much better.

Dr. Mandy agreed, "Yes, because then the normal expectations of love, courtesy, empathy, caring, and other thorny emotions are not there anymore. Behaviors that certain folks can not be expected to have, nor to display." Taking those expectations off the table changes everything.

Our principal has a severely emotionally disturbed relative and truly understands the difficulties for other family members and their likelihood of being targeted, emotionally abused, physically lashed out at, or otherwise resented. This same principal took notes, attended RBWO meetings, and assisted me in a thousand ways over the years with some supremely challenging children.

It's been such a long difficult road and has included about ten different severely diagnosed kids over a 17 year period of unrelenting stress and challenges.

No wonder I'm now looking at the breaks in the clouds with some suspicion still and can be attributed both to the traumas I've endured and the full-blown PTSD. Duh. Cortisol and adrenaline having run amuck within me for way too long, damaging the internal organs, most notably my heart.

My darling son-in-law Preston eventually bolted down all the heating vents in each bedroom, as they were pulled up and routinely stuffed with trash, treasures, hoards, or urine. The wall intake vents? Not so fortunate. My February retirement check will go towards finally replacing each one, along with checks for $60 each to Chuy and Mayra for their Lifetime Sports classes, and a deposit upon the room where the rehearsal dinner will be held for Daniel's wedding.

I flat out emptied my wallet for this month yesterday at Lowe's for two more gallons of paint, more wall plaster and patches, plus incidentals designed to improve the quality of our life now. It makes me happy to work on positive endeavors. The hooks I'd hung on the back of bedroom doors and closet doors for their belts, accessories, towels or whatever? Routinely destroyed. Will I ever learn?

I wanna quote part of an email I'd received yesterday from another trauma mama, "Gutted the kitchen and rebuilt it, gutted a bathroom to the studs after years of intentional water damage, took the dining room, living room, mud room and several bedrooms totally apart and patched, mudded, sanded, stained, painted...replaced half the doors..the rest are next along with carpet in my room and wallpaper in a bathroom that the little boys removed. Getting there."

She was once a professional, out in the work world, surrounded by other educated parents whose children did not rage and destroy. Like me, she now is stunned and half shattered, but working on her own emotional recovery. Who'd a thunk it? It's not like we chose abusive men to have in our lives. We chose to try and help children, to share our blessings...

17 years of me being emotionally and, sometimes, physically battered. 17 long years in which I did find time to smile and be happy - although folks would then make me pay for daring to be vulnerable.

It will not take me 17 years to heal.

I won't necessarily morph into some social butterfly, I'll likely remain a hermit to a large degree, but I won't twitch and recoil, dive for cover at the sound of a ringing phone that usually meant another problem. Hopefully I'll be able to digest my food properly, sleep at nights, and learn to trust and enjoy life again. I won't cringe in abject terror.

The 12 kids still at home have their own sets of issues, but these are issues that, with therapy and good choices, will heal to some extent.

It is my prayer of course.

Where's my paint can?

Switch Plates

Even the wall switch plates have taken a beating. It's only been about 25% of my children who've been extremely destructive, the vandalism shocking, but this is the first time in a long time that what I'm repairing will stay repaired. It had been very disheartening over the years to carefully fix something, while feeling someone else's eyes boring a blazing hole in my back, knowing the delight they were imagining in again destroying something, putting twisted action to their sad/mad/bad feelings, it was almost a physical release for them.

It stressed me out terribly.

There'd be nothing I could do about it. No consequence that wouldn't lead to another act of vandalism. I learned this the hard way. They wanted to 'win' the battle. There's no way I could ever do so in my own house, because the stakes were higher in their own minds. This was addressed in therapies and therapeutic resources/interventions/placements, etc., but to no avail.

I literally and physically represented all that they felt was wrong with their life. I represented the reason they were not with their birth parents - who they usually didn't even remember. Don't confuse them with the facts.

That this was only a minority percentage of the population here has been my saving grace, but the constant onslaught has certainly taken its toll on everyone in our family.

Feces smearing, bed wetting, shocking acts of aggression, constant damages, extreme defiance, argumentative behaviors, unrelenting oppositionalism, simmering hatred and explosive rages, physical attacks, thefts, and malicious lies have all conspired to now leave me slumping here at home in very extreme relief, but also still pushing forward, trying to power my way back into the Land of the Living.

As I slowly, happily repainted a bedroom, patching every hole, dent and flaw, I noticed the window trim that was different as I'd paid a repair person about two thousand dollars several years ago to replace windows, we'd had so many of them broken out by kids who knew that would make me sad. Well, duh.

I paid $4,000 during the month Grandpa died to gut a bathroom that had been destroyed, several thousand more on another bathroom. Miss Cissy had redone two other bathrooms for me as a gift maybe five years ago. I have some more big ticket repair jobs pending, but am saving up slowly for them, it's not a whip out the credit card moment, because I do NOT want to be in debt. I'd rather live with the disrepair.

I'm budgeting about $200 monthly for Lowe's as I repaint, caulk, patch, replace, and repair slowly all the intensively shocking damages. Jack replaced a doorknob for me yesterday, he's only 11, but he knows how to do it, as nearly every single door in this house has been compromised over the years. We've even had to replace door frames. Banisters have come down in pieces and closet rods broken on the floor, kids angrily staring at my own shock, daring me to react.

I could never afford to react, I didn't have that luxury. I could only repair, knowing it'd happen again and again and again. Anyone wonder why those same now mostly grown kids are not allowed here? I'm not even discussing the even more serious issues. I'd advise others to steer clear as well for their own personal safety. Please trust me on this.

For the fourth Wednesday night in a row, I've made it to church services. This feels good. I'd made a New Years resolution to do so, it's more important to me than errands, tasks, chores, and other to do list items that stress me out. I need the mid-week dose of encouragement.

I cleaned hard all day yesterday, 8-3, nonstop, finally sitting down to eat a sandwich when Tabby and Nando came home from school, but this is a big house, and I was very positively energized, knowing it won't be undone on purpose by severely disturbed kids, who know they can make me sad by simply kicking another hole in the wall.

A F%^& You moment that they really couldn't help. The level of disturbance was too severe to function normally. They'd thrived on that control issue, that ability to direct an adult's attention so strongly and negatively. They hated positive attention, would make me 'pay' for being nice, the very deep-seated self-loathing that we addressed constantly in therapy never healed. Some of them now on their own and not doing too great.

I had one gown kid charged while in jail for destruction of government property as he'd defaced and done his level best to destroy a jail cell. Yes, this is what I lived with for a long, long time, trying my best to provide love, nurturance, food and shelter.

That sentiment was echoed at a facility where the Director told me they'd finally just put wood up from the floor to the ceiling to protect the sheet rock. To protect the sheet rock? Eventually I gave up on the walls, spending all my time protecting human beings.

Child Welfare professionals need to understand the severity that can be evident in children. Most of middle America is clueless. I think I've mentioned recently that a worker had told me she spends more time talking families out of even trying with some kids they think they can adopt. I agree with the worker, knowing a disruption would be inevitable. Some kids will not ever function in a family environment where there are potential victims. It's a very sad fact. It is not the child's fault. It is nobody's fault, this is what mental illness looks like, and it doesn't just happen when they become adults, it's evident in childhood.

Yep, many of us live this way and have done so for years. Daniel used to be my glass pane replacement go to guy, but the big ticket replacement man had put in windows that didn't have panes, thus ensuring bigger repair costs. I should've caught that tactic, but I was then too busy putting out fires, literally and figuratively.

Today is Dr Mandy Day, I have grocery store and Lowes on my list, it's gonna be a stormy evening, we've had a great deal of rain lately, but our overall rain deficit remains. The weather's been warm and I have masses of daffodils in vases. Hyacinths are up and Nando'd picked the tiny wild crocus blooms as well.

Flattered By The Offer

It did take me awhile to catch on to this one, as I didn't habitually search closets. Very troubled kids would dig holes in the Sheetrock in order to hide stuff, generally useless stuff like food that was in the pantry and could be had for the asking. It just never made any sense. Then they'd make the hole bigger to get to what they'd deposited.

Sometimes I'd find my kitchen knives, never any big ones as I'm not that stupid. I'll chop celery with a butter knife first.

I'd patch it up, or Chuy or Tony might do so for me, and voila, otra vez, mixing the two languages I've studied, I'd just have to do it again.

I should've bought stock in wall patch kits.

I've heard stories from other trauma drama parents about their kids peeing in these hidey holes, I sniffed cautiously yesterday and was rewarded with no urinary fragrance. Thank God for small favors. What idiot sniffs holes in the walls, besides dogs? Uh, that'd be this idiot, the one who hasn't brushed her hair in two days.

I painted, painted, and painted, as I'm liable to do each January, the temperatures outside rose into the 60s, but I valiantly forced myself to remain on task, opening windows as my reward, inhaling the very intoxicating scent of winter Daphne, I should've planted way more of that shrub.

I'd picked up Stephen Covey's 8th Habit audiobook at some yard sale months ago for just two quarters, downloaded it, and listened to it twice lately, trying to rebuild myself, my own character that's been routinely assassinated, maligned, disparaged, and abused by others.

But I'm gonna be OK. My Second Chapter's gonna need capitalization, I have horticultural dreams that'll consume my time and energy for the next five decades, I have very lovely grandchildren, as evidenced by Alexander and Ellie below, and so many of my grown children generously provide my entire social life. Deysi had texted me bedtime photos last night.

Deysi and Marcela's birth sister is Saray, not to be confused with Sarah, I'd been emailed that particular question recently. Sarah is 38, Deysi is 35, Cristy is 34, Saray is 33, Gina is 33, Marcela is 30, Yolie is 31, Sergi is 30, Jesse's fixing to be 30. Man, I have a lot of kids in their thirties. I'm really proud of them too.

The future Mrs. Bodie, Megan, and her soon to be husband, my darling Daniel, have already planned our next Braves game attendance. I've already lined up the babysitters and have installed a countdown app on my phone. I'm super dooper excited about it, especially that Daniel is marrying so well - something I always expected of him. Duh.

I'm also very happy about my other married son and his beautiful spouse, Lena, that's exactly what I want for my sons. I don't have any weird Mama attachment, no driving manipulative competition for their attention, I'll take what they give me. That said, I miss Jesse terribly, he's soooo far away. I miss Sergi too, married or not, I've got some excellent grown sons. Edgar's far away at the moment also. Big Joe is in town and gainfully employed. You know I like that aspect of his life. Fabian is a work in progress, right? I hope.

Guys - All I want it your own happiness and satisfaction for what you want, not my dreams and goals for you, but your own.

Late in the night I watched a psychotherapist on TV answer a question I'd long pondered, "There's no compelling evidence that early childhood deprivation later leads to hoarding behaviors."

As children in the 1950s we didn't have a lot of stuff, neither did any of our friends, no one lived on credit, it was a cash only society in which few mothers went to work outside of the home. We frequented libraries, played in creeks and the woods, and were generally very happy. When my mom finally allowed Gary and I to ride out bikes to the library without parental supervision, we both thought we'd died and gone to Heaven. Me on my blue Murray with a large turquiose basket to carry home tons of books, it was hard to steer that sucker. Good practice for the 15 passenger van I didn't know I'd grow up to drive?

Now in the Digital Age, there's little need for stacks of CDs or even for piles of books - something I'm beginning to get used to very slowly.

In a house furnished with books and plants, I'm slowly eliminating the books, sending them to Goodwill, but not my gardening ones. No way. But really, why would I still need French Lit tomes that I'd studied in college? Spanish grammar yes, French Lit, no.

A local editor emailed me to see if I wanted to be featured in an upcoming gardening segment. I thought about it, very flattered certainly, but the reality of it would stress me out, something I'm trying to avoid. My gardens never look good enough for me, there are always weeds in areas, always a place that's either bare or over-planted, sometimes I'm so impressed with my own efforts that I sprain a muscle patting myself on my back, other times I wonder how I can even call myself a gardener. Or the hens would get out and make a mess, or areas would need mowing. Nah, I have enough self-imposed stress. but thank you for thinking about me.

I haven't even begun my indoor seedlings yet, I'm really behind on my own self-appointed tasks, but I'm also happy with all I've accomplished lately. By shutting down my laptop each morning, rarely distracted by anything other than the chores in front of me, not saddled by the behaviors of others that need a professional staff to maintain, I'm slowly working on all the deferred maintenance of the last two decades.

And dadgum if all my high schoolers weren't texting me as I painted, there are smears of paint on my otterbox. I have emails to answer and phone calls to return but my to do list takes priority this morning.

Continued Consumer Anarchy

Sarah's blogging regularly nowadays, she'd told me about this some time back and I've been doing it and loving it.

Your Pie Lunch

I've even ditched the oats in favor of a mongo bowl of oat bran, cinnamon, raisins, flax seed meal and walnuts, plus shredded coconut with rice milk. I ate the largest bowl ever yesterday morning with the sole purpose of simply tanking up, so as to eliminate the need to stop for lunch. I wanted to paint without taking food breaks that slow me down, time is limited.

"Wanna meet us for lunch?" Yolie unhelpfully tempted me. I was already so dang full, but I made an appearance, in a restaurant in which I was still too full of bran to eat, just because I could. I now have this much freedom. Daniel and Megan met us there as well, still ironing out their wedding details.

The schools don't call me to meet the deputies there and subdue a rager anymore, they don't call and ask me to take him/her home so they can teach without disruption. I can do laundry uninterrupted, poot around at the grocery store with time to think and plan, and I can catch up with my grown kids nowadays. Saray was texting me and Vanessa called with some good news about her living situation, but my friend, Janet, had the best news of all in that this cancer diagnosis is not as dire as it could have been, needing only radiation.

I'm loving this.

"Bita!" Mae and Marissa hollered excitedly when I walked in, money just can't buy that much love.

I should decidedly not ever be allowed to mess with Super Glue, at least this time my fingers didn't meld together, but one has a good coagulant coating that's gonna take some time to wear off. I've never had a mani/pedi in my life, sure not gonna start now, I don't even believe in nail polish, as the chemicals stink and are an environmental nightmare, so any pseudo ladylike appearance of my hands is not a priority, nor even a possibility.

Back in our Dark Ages the ownership of guitars by CW and Lily would have been challenged by The One Who Must Control Everything. "Why do they get birth mom presents?" she'd often scream, once having slung a broom at that birth mom's head, much to our collective shock. She'd also slugged my then eight year old grandson in the back of his head because she didn't want him on our computers.

Or when JoJo, Allen or Mayra would be taken places by their older siblings, she'd try and prevent the occurrence. "Why don't I get to go out with my older brothers?" she'd scream, not realizing they didn't have driver's licenses and even knowing they were both in lock down facilities at that very moment on assault charges. The accusation later became that I prevented her from going out with them. Like I couldn't have used a break?

No explanation ever sufficed, we always had to either give in, or risk the wrath which would involve deputies. Eventually I became very beat down, the kids as well always scattered and ran for cover, that was no way to live and it took a massive toll on us all.

It one thing to hurt me, I'll get over it, but DO NOT attack my children and grandchildren repeatedly and think it'll be hunky dory with me. I'm absolutely outraged, deeply saddened, and very conflicted in my innermost feelings. I'm dealing with it in therapy. Duh.

The wall that I was patching yesterday was injured by an older teenager who is very closed off emotionally, guarding his feelings as his entire sibling group has been viciously and very dangerously angry. That he's confined his own anger to the walls is not an anathema to me, I can deal with this, no human being is getting hurt. I have discussed with him the fact that I believe he needs to speak with a professional. He listened to me, but was noncommittal.

"Sweetheart," I beseeched him, knowing he places a high value on his own impressive intelligence, "I'm smart as crap, but I know I need a neutral party with which to discuss our abnormal events." He didn't budge, surely thinking, 'If you're so smart, how'd you end up like this?' A feeling I often contemplate as I paint, weed, clean, or participate in other robotic activities.

Two other brothers of another sibling group still live with me, now 16 and almost 18, the youngest siblings in a group that included two other nearly sociopathic individuals, one now in prison, I'm ignorant as to the whereabouts of the other, sadly I'm also both relieved and disinterested, in that I'd been seriously robbed blind for over a decade, lied about, and listened to false accusations about everyone one else they'd ever come in contact with in daily life.

I'm out, color me grateful.

I'm consciously aware of the fact that I'm now changing everything, wanting to overcome my own severe trauma, as well as that of the teenagers still living here with me, I've even changed out wall switches and plug covers, painted so many walls, rid myself of so many horrific memories.

As I painted last night after supper, nearly every kid in the house was keeping me company, all of us in one room, good discussions going on, teasing and jokes. At eight I shut the paint can, sent kids to their showers or beds or just to their rooms to wind down, silence descended and by nine p.m. my house was completely silent.

Who knew it could be this nice?

Bygone Wild West Days

Even in our Wild West need-the-deputies-days, even when windows were being broken, walls kicked in, appliances destroyed on purpose just to get a rise out of me, and larcenous folks stealing everything that wasn't nailed down, they never messed with my piles of paperwork, and never threw out receipts that I needed. An aside: they never threw out anything, preferring hoards that made me nutso, as I like long clean zen-like spaces. I want papers filed and clothes hung up. I'm funny like that.

The extremely disturbed ones liked smelly nests of trash, soiled clothing, and crapped-up food items surrounding them. Ultimately so very sad, a precursor of homelessness and a life of self-medication? I hope not, but I remain skeptical of much high-level functioning. Other parents have told me about the pervasive smell of urine, of half-filled soda bottles growing mold spores, and lipstick defaced walls from their own severely disturbed children.

I again painted all day long, the living room is completed, well except for an accent wall, and I finished the long hall off, painting it a steel grey-blue, easily covering unidentifiable stains.

Twice in one month I ordered Dominos, shocking the kids. I allowed each kid to order their own one topping pizza - 12 pizzas at six dollars each, their astonishment was comical, usually I make the 12 of them agree on ten pizzas, but this month we'd barely spent any of the gas money that I'd allocated in our budget, having hardly left the place all January, except for school and church...and the grocery store.

Grandma'd cooked an after church lunch for us all, and then picked up the pizzas after taking Jack to karate at her church, allowing me to remain at home with the other kids and to continue painting.

Nary a problem yesterday at all. A very decent Sunday afternoon, everyone doing something, no one fussing nor acting up. It is sooooo nice.

I'd talked to Dr Mandy about it, me feeling intensely guilty that there'd been so many dangerous years, me being hyper-vigilant 24-7, when kids attacked kids, when the rest of my kids were diving for cover so often, usually the violence would be directed at me, but collateral damage included everyone, especially in the emotional realm. Either they were preoccupied with losing me, the only one who has ever consistently fed, clothed, sheltered and nurtured them, or the spillover fears intruded into their thoughts, including their own very justified fears of the simmering, unpredictable rages.

"You tried hard for a very long time, "Dr. Mandy reassured me, using a white flag of surrender as an analogy that I've since been thinking about all week.

I shudder to remember the intense, irrational control issues that plagued us all regarding Sabrina's cheer leading events, soccer games, church activities, school days, and possessions where all the kids knew we bordered on dangerous explosions so often, if one violent kid wanted that which another kid had - or was as a person. Sabrina and Mayra's beauty was a trigger as well. Seriously.

I do feel guilty that my kids tiptoed around fearfully, I just can't shake that yet. That said, I now treasure the light-hearted atmosphere that we are all enjoying - the way it always should have been.

"Ow!" Allen exclaimed goofily this morning, as the van horn hurt his ears which sent Jack and JoJo into paroxysms of giggling.

Back then, they wouldn't have been allowed to laugh by The One Who Controlled Everything. She would've thought they were laughing at her and launched into a hitting and spitting rage in which folks would miss the bus. I was driving them to the bus stop this morning, down the long dirt driveway, to our mailbox on the dirt road, as it's drizzly, and my girls with their very carefully straightened hair requested my taxi services. Glad to oblige.

Speaking of straight hair, I'm very surprised to be found on Facebook by folks who've not seen me in decades - back then I had curly, very dark hair, and two other last names as I married twice. I've been using my maiden name for a very long time now, but no one knew me by that name initially as I began my public school career as Miz Brown, a name I'd kept after the divorce so Sarah and I would have the same last name.

Were it not for Sarah, spinsterhood would've been my preference. In the book I'm reading Maine Farm: A Year of Country Life, the author wrote of a woman who'd never married. Anita Harris who died at age 92 in 1971, donating her land to the state as a wildlife sanctuary, The Holbrook Island Sanctuary. 1200 acres from an early pioneer in the then cult-like status of vegetarianism. How cool is she?

A Wonderfully Uneventful Life

Thunder, lightening and a tornado watch in January gave us nearly two inches of blessed rain. Wowza, I'll take it, I'm already pre-conditioned to dreading a repeat drought, it's been so prevalent for so dang long.

Daniel and Megan spent the afternoon with us, silently reminding me of the blessing he's been on my life for so long, I'm believing 2012 will be a wonderful year after so many decades of unrelenting stress. Daniel took Grandma to Peach Mac to get her an Ipad here at almost age 82, setting her up all afternoon.

Jack's back in his free twice a week karate class, Grandma's pastor offers these classes, but Jack was selected for leadership, thus nearly ensuring a free ride all the way to black belt. I sure hope so for him.

Check this out, I got nothing. No drama, no thoughtful pondering, nothing to report.

Gonna be a short post, we've been to both church and Sunday School, I'm gonna finish happily painting the living room walls. The view from my desk right now includes my guitar playing Dubs, the plate behind his head was artistically done by Marcela in 1989.

Sarah blogged.

Sabrina's A Driver

Out the door again on a Saturday morning, crack of dawn, getting kids where they needed to be, Grandma babysitting the few at home, Sabrina got her driver's license, and now I'm waiting on Daniel and Megan to come by.

Because it's been too challenging to be able to leave my house for even a brief second, I'd not gotten around to changing the names on some social security cards for years, every time I filed taxes I was reminded, then it'd flit out of my over-taxed mind that was bound and determined to work hard on keeping everyone safe - an immense challenge for quite some time there. I just couldn't leave some raging kids unless Yolie and Chuck would be here, even then the ragers would amp it up so that I'd feel too uneasy to tend to other things that needed doing.

Nine and a half years of that kind of pressure accordingly is trauma-inducing. I'm not now celebrating by a cruise but rather by the onerous tasks I now feel good about completing. Nerd Girl, I know.

A couple of hours yesterday did the trick, under a deadline in that I knew she'd need a proper social security number today for her driver's appointment, sometimes the paperwork and the sitting and waiting all conspire to make me procrastinate.

I had eight errands yesterday, barely getting them done in time to dash home before the elementary school bus disgorged my two youngest sweethearts.

"Why are you on Prince Avenue?" Tony texted me from school, using the Google Latitude program that I also use to make sure I know where my teens are at all times. Turnabout. For me to be in town buffaloed him, I wasn't at a grocery store, the laundry room or my gardens.

A quiet Friday night with everyone behaving and keeping themselves occupied, this morning we also finished up the credit recovery courses...check completed on that task.

I got my elderly sewing machine repaired, tuned up, oiled, and raring to go, next project will be curtains in the living room. I've been HGTVing all sorts of ideas, now without ragers to tear 'em down as fast as I hang 'em, I'm feeling encouraged.

Could'Ve Been Worse

A 7:45 a.m. 504 meeting to strategize about how best to get my silly, absolutely zero-impulse control JoJo through high school. Thank you, black coffee, for jump starting my day that has too many things to get done it appears, as I glance at my calendar.

I'm supposed to meet up with Deysi and her kids, but that may be contingent upon the paperwork-shuffling process I have ahead of me combined with three important errands.

I locked my own keys in my office last night. Had to kick in the door this morning, minimal damage, I can fix it with wood glue, repaint the side in one small area, and it'll be as good as new. I still haven't finished painting the living room, I have other chores demanding my time and attention.

"I'm craving red beans, corn and rice tonight," Jack had requested yesterday, Sabrina chiming in, "That's my favorite of all." I used to take some of it up to Miriam's work place, as it was her all-time number one dinner choice. Everyone chowed down happily, except the one who used it as a way to disrespect me once again.

Oh puh-leeze, I disengaged. I already know how this turns out...

--------------------

And the fun began.

I got up to the high school only to discover the meeting was about Allen. Before he joined us, two administrators came to the room to tell me Allen had just kicked a teacher. My heart sank.

My mind went blank. Allen wouldn't do that. I weakly repeated, "Allen?" in utter disbelief.

Both men were doing their best to not bust out laughing, the amount of effort it must've taken them was impressive, the rest of the office staff couldn't contain themselves, and I too eventually had to work hard to get serious.

Apparently Allen assumed that was his friend wearing blue jeans and the exact same jacket, same body build and hair color from behind, so Allen kicked him in the butt, demonstrating his own complete and genetic lack of zero impulse control.

The friend turned around and Allen got the shock of his life. It wasn't his friend, it was a new student teacher.

Oops.

Allen's gonna have a hard time living this down.

The newby went to the front office, "How do I write up a kid who kicked me in the butt?" Allen was accompanying him, wide-eyed, scared out of his wits.

Allen has a reputation for emotionally shutting down, not for physically lashing out. He's as quiet at school as he is loud at home.

The principal made Allen write a letter of apology, I made him deliver it verbally as well, just grateful that no assault charges were being filed, thus ruining Allen's extremely tenuous hold on a desire to finish high school.

That just sucked another hour out of my jam packed morning....but it could've been so much worse.

Tabby'd left her book bag outside, discarding it to jump on the trampoline instead of going in the house first, totally forgetting it before nightfall, our drought-stricken place had rain last night. Thankfully I keep spare book bags and her notebooks weren't wet.

And I have an unusual headache that won't make my other chore/errands/tasks any fun to endure.

Whole Grain Living

I pulled the back door handle off the entire back door, rushing out to some meeting, oops, now how'm I gonna open the door?

Dumped an entire cup of coffee on my own bed, maybe I need to use the word entire less often, as I cope with clumsiness and way too much speed minus intentional movement?

Three Wednesday night church services in a row, that hasn't happened in many years. Sarah saves me a seat and brings me her peppermint tea bags so we can sip and learn from Pastor Tony, it's the ultimate in emotional luxury for me lately. She'd also brought by the Chocolate Death Vegan cake that's so amazing.

I'd eaten so much for supper that I d practically waddled into the church. Browning flour tortillas in a cast iron skillet, adding black beans and brown rice, pepper jack cheese, sea salt, sour cream and Fire Hot Pepper Sauce and salsa. It's time consuming to cook that many burritos for 12 kids, Grandma, Lily's friend, and I, but oh so worth it.

The most common refrain, "May I have another one?" I kept on churning 'em out, full kids are happy kids.

Tony'd turned 16 yesterday, outgrowing his immaturity slowly, either he's the sweetest, most helpful kid in the house, or he's overly busy, provoking other teenagers into a white hot irritation zone. The tide turned suddenly last Spring, he recognized his challenging issues and began working on them in a surprisingly quick manner, he still reverts at times, but usually he's amazingly changed for the better.

The three kids in this photo, Lily, 14, CW, 15, and Jack, 11, have been here since birth, nurtured and loved. One home their entire life, one house- not many kids can claim that anymore. I raised them up on the foods that I like, of course . We humans all do that, yet I like very wholesome whole grain natural foods, so that's what their taste buds have been accustomed to, just like Sarah's had been as well.

Both Jack and Lily love oatmeal on winter mornings but not that instant crap pablum sold in grocery stores. Instead they prefer oats, oat bran, flax seed meal, shredded coconut, fresh cranberries, chopped walnuts, wheat bran, and whole flax seeds in one bowl, usually with rice milk. This is my preference as well, talk about stick to your ribs.

CW's in that brooding teenage posing lifestyle that precluded breakfast, he'd prefer to sleep until the very last minute possible, and dash out the door when I'm hollering, "Let's go! Let's go!" That inclination is petty easy to live with, lemme tell ya.

They're extraordinarily sweet kids and I'm very appreciative of that fact, they're loving and calm, and I treasure every minute of being with them. Martin joined their sib group unofficially the minute he moved in 13 yeas ago, Tony's emotionally close and dependent on Lily because she's so steady and reliable, he's older, but she's taller and capable, confident and guiding, comforting to him also, as his CP makes him more vulnerable, less able at times to keep up with his peer group at school. He's been here since she was a toddler, but she's always been the one in charge, he literally looks up to her, and takes his social cues from her. She was then one, he was two years old when they met.

Folks do question me often on foods. Food is a hot topic nowadays in the media, now that the evidence is in, the obvious has been stated, we are what we eat. Eat Twinkies, be sluggish and miserable. Eat correctly and go full steam ahead. I'm nearly 60, Grandma's almost 82, both of us have had a lifetime of filling our bellies with home-grown fruit, vegetables and whole grains, and the result has been darn good health in spite of my high-stress family and her earlier high stress landlord existence when she owned a bunch of rental houses in Virginia.

Why don't folks who rent understand that the rent goes to a mortgage company, not to the landlord's pocket? The lack of logic on this earth continues to buffalo me each and every day.

(Jesse - go back and look at how tall Dubs is now, like you, he's as tall as those upper cabinets. Imagine how tall Isaiah's gonna be...)

Leeway

I know enough about violence, or violent folks, that I have very little hope that the behavior would, or could, ever cease.

I'm kinda bitter from previous experiences here, from kids, for Pete's Sake. Kids.

I sat in a meeting yesterday, where the child's violence was tiptoed around, the understanding of the bipolar behaviors is there, but fundamentally to believe that it would be safe to have this person around potential victims blows me away.

I will NOT participate in allowing violence in our home.

Call me hopeless, but after many years of this, I am not beat down enough to begin to believe that anyone has changed at all. That I would take a chance like that? Seriously?

I owe it to the 12 darling kids still living at home to keep it violence free.

What if I were dating a violent person and was telling professionals, "He's changed," and being stupid enough to believe it?

I'd lose custody of my children after he attacked, right?

How is it any different when it is a child attacking other children? When the other kids cower in fright? When they must tiptoe around the one on the sofa who is glaring at them and they've done nothing wrong?

No way, y'all, no way.

My heart slammed within me during the entire meeting. That's what trauma looks like, me reliving the scary events of the past. No, thank you.

I crave peace, I lust after silence.

I desire to be boring, to have a dull life, one that is quiet and comforting...and safe.

I am very, very sorry that I, as a mother, was unable to access enough help to turn these behaviors around in four out of five kids in one sibling group. It makes me very sad. Professionals can't change these behaviors either. Blame me if you must, just help us find safety.

But don't say stuff that is untrue. Don't say that it is about the numbers at home. This one kid is now in a placement with two therapeutic parents and no other kids and the placement isn't working. Duh. It's not about OTP not working, nor the intensive cottage in another place, nor peers, nor the school system, nor the juvenile justice program, nor the way the wind blows. This one person must someday somehow some way assume responsibility for their dangerous behaviors...and, right now, I just don't see this happening, not an option yet...if ever.

There are some folks very enmeshed in their violent mannerisms, their own rage, their hatred, their aggression, and all sorts of negative behaviors. There are those who love the power that their rage has over others...in school, at home, in placements, or where ever.

It just is that way.

I don't blame the person really. I don't believe they can help it. I've observed, I've participated, I've studied and researched. I've learned and absorbed so much information from professionals, but it is what it is. It Is. That's all.

"Just checking on you," another sibling from that group called me last night. "How'd you already hear about my wisdom teeth?" he asked in surprise. "Well, I love you," he ended the conversation.

"I love you too," I responded, because I do.

In spite of it all, I do care deeply. I'd sat in the Sheriff's office at one point, several years ago, a huge nasty purplish-black bruise blossoming up from my elbow, from this person that I care for, x-rays taken, nothing broken, but my spirit. And my hope regarding family safety.

Even the therapist at the last residential placement never personally observed a violent incident, never watched the staff have to take this person down, never experienced the heart pounding fear involved, never got injured. Just reading an incident report is not enough. This is a very good therapist, but her optimism doesn't reflect the reality very much.

A behavior objective aimed at improvement, at reducing rather than eliminating violent outbursts, still allows too much leeway for injuries to others.

Books Are Safe With Me

JoJo's orthodontist appointment first thing this morning, took a grown kid to the doctor office later as her infected eye precluded driving, got the prescription, home for just a minute, long enough to down a sandwich, gotta get to yet another Miss P meeting, keeping family safety as our priority.

I'd painted ten solid hours yesterday, Grandma again cooking a lovely supper for everyone. Marcela kept me company as I turned the living room a grey blue hue. "Looks like a dang playhouse," CW critiqued, as the Caribbean colors from several rooms are now all visible when one stands there watching me paint.

To alleviate the sting of his words, he fixed my shower nozzle thingy, coming back downstairs to tell me it was growing on him now. I love it.

I'm not done, a thousand interruptions slowed me down, I've been very busy with wall patching kits, fixing where fists and feet made monster holes.

What if I went to someone's home and routinely punched holes in their walls or broke windows? How is this ever considered acceptable behavior? Yet it's a behavior I'd much rather see occur in place of a kid getting hit by a rager. This can't be real life, can it?

"Come back and get me tomorrow," little Marissa ordered her mother when it was time to go. We decided on another time, when Hazel'll be here too for a grandbaby slumber party.

Tabby is so excellent with my grandchildren, playing school, jumping on the trampoline, swinging and dragging out all the toys. She was born to be an aunt. The baby of our family, she truly enjoys not being the baby when the babies are here.

I had to address an unacceptable behavior, "I don't care where you find matches," I hollered in aggravation, "Do NOT bring them into my house." Yes, lighting birthday cake candles has been a bear, going out to the van to use the cigarette lighter on a whorl of paper. Are you kidding me? No matches, no lighters, certainly no guns, and very few kitchen knives have been in evidence over the past 25 years.

I sent the 13 year old to his room, followed him, and gave him the lowdown on what would happen if he had accidentally started a fire. Thank God for the tattletales, narcs, and confidential informers who live here. This is not a difficult kid, but this behavior will not be tolerated. He was repentant which is all I ever ask of anyone, apologetic and contrite.

I can live with that.

Elizabeth sent me the following picture and I cracked up laughing.

Hilton Head, SC

I haven't spoken to Yolie in some three days now. She and her family snuck off to an off-season rate beach rental for a few days to decompress. When you are the Go To family, when both sides of the family so often need your input, when your jobs demand so much of you, when life is just difficult for every human being on the planet, time away is a must.

"I'm not gonna call you," I promised her, knowing they needed down time, not phone calls.

She's sent me photos, but I've laid low, let them have this time. Mighty big of me, right?

As I flipped down the digital TV guide, looking at all the shows on A & E, TLC, Bravo, etc, I was struck by how many shows are on losing weight, clutter, obsessions, or drug interventions. There are a ton of shows on prison life, on court cases, medical anomalies, weird jobs, the documentaries all seem to have an object lesson, and then there are the ridiculous reality shows based on drama and fighting.

Everyone seems to have so much intense baggage and I thought to myself that we Jesus freaks might seem, on the surface, to be weirdos, but knowing we have a higher power surrounding us at all times, seems to me, to be even better than an over-active conscience.

The lack of a conscience, or the lack of empathy in today's world is a shade past startling. If people just followed The Golden Rule, there'd be less need for rehabilitation, right?

Maybe with no drama nowadays, my blog'll disintegrate, I have little need of processing, right? As if I've healed immediately?

Who wants to read about weeding all day long, painting door frames, hauling manure, or cheering on at soccer games? Bo-ring. I crave boring, it's my main goal now in life. Hear my meditative chant, "No drama, no drama, no drama, Ommmmmm."

My living room, with its starkly unimpressive white walls, hasn't been re-painted in the 19 years that I've lived in this house. I'm fixing to remedy that fact with a sky blue/teal that I'd also painted the long hall with a few years ago. Maybe an accent wall of a chocolate brown behind the TV and book cases?

Here's a big one though, I might drag out my old Singer sewing machine, the one Grandma bought me on my 15th birthday, nearly 43 years ago, and make curtains. I don't care much about shutting them, I feel trapped if the windows are blocked. We live out in the country, there's no one peeping in to watch us farting around in our house.

I haven't made anyone any clothes in 17 years for obvious time constraint reasons. I used to sew church dresses for my oldest girls, there's nothing like the immense variety of patterns and materials in a fabric store, to make the department store's copycat collections seem minuscule.

Nando got really angry with his birth brother, Scotty, last night, for some unimportant reason, and stormed around his own room tossing stuff everywhere. I know that on some level, he now feels it's safe to express his own inner anger, now that the ones who'd rage so significantly that the deputies would have to be called to help quell the disturbance are not here anymore.

Nando's filling the void, but to an appropriate degree. Folks are not only allowed to have feelings, but they also need to express them as well. Nando also had a great idea that he'd laboriously explained to me regarding a new chicken moat detour that'd be fun for the hens. I listened intently, and agreed with him, there's our Spring project coming up. He loves our hens, loves them, and I sure want to encourage his interest in them.

Chuy didn't want to accompany us all to a youth group luncheon yesterday after church, tired of being inside, so he stayed home, working on constructing a cruelty-free squirrel trap - a trap and release program he'd been devising in his head.

Lily made tamales from scratch, something that would not have been feasible had Miss P still been living here. She'd have taken over, knocked Lily out of the way, demanded everything, fought with folks, trashed the kitchen big time, and not followed through on anything, leaving waste and destruction in her wake. Her main objective would've only been to have controlled the family with what she felt she'd allow them to accomplish - which would've been nothing.

I'd been down that rough road for nine and a half years - trying to deal with crying kids who'd been hit by a rager or getting Grandma to keep them safe over on her side of the house as I poured hours into fruitless discussions regarding appropriate behavior while a rager roared and threw things everywhere, screaming wild accusations at everyone who'd scattered in self-defense. There'd have been no trigger, no logic, no rhyme nor reason, just temper dysregulation that always made her feel better maybe, but left the rest of us overwhelmed by the dysfunction.

It's taking me awhile to cope and to heal, how much more so for the smaller victims here?

She, Miss P, used to run outside and knock over the chicken tractor viciously, just to upset Nando and I. We'd try and catch the hens, while she would then amp it up and go after someone else, attacking and assaulting younger victims, leaving me feeling as if I'd never be able to keep us all safe from these frightening episodes.

This reminds me how grateful I am to have dispassionate professionals involved in our lives, that I've not been sucked into the crazy vortex from which there is no return. Pathways, Advantage, Dr. C, Dr. G, Dr. Mandy and many, many others helped me understand that this wasn't about me at all. I'd be wild-eyed with shock, stunned at the damage and destruction, and the professionals would do their best to help both she and I come to terms with everything. Oh My Goodness, did it take a toll on me, or what?

I'll just scratch at my poison ivy, figure out how to install this new component to my shower head upstairs, "You just need a wrench," the Home Depot man informed me, and I'll paint walls on this MLK Holiday while the kids are home from school with me.

"What's for supper?" I've already been asked four times before eight in the morning.

Dr McCreight's priceless book, Recovery From Hazardous Parenting, is more of a booklet, short and sweet, at least to my ears. Grandma read it through yesterday, and was strangely silent afterwards, mulling it all over in her mind. It put to words the inexplicably bizarre life we'd been living.

When one has had a front seat to all this, a front row to the difficulties and challenges, the absolute inability of a parent to change ingrained behaviors or genetic predispositions, when the elderly parent of the beleaugured parent has had to watch helplessly all the attacks and the assaults, the rages and the destruction, well then, the secondary trauma spreads.

Grandma, too, finds immense solace in hard work. She went back to her side of the house to peel, chop and cook down apples into applesauce. She baked a ton of potatoes, put supper on the table as I continued to paint, finally making my office right perfect, using the rest of the sunny paint to cover the battle scars in our over-used kitchen.

I'd never washed my face, nor brushed my teeth all that day, had been single mindedly painting when a car pulled up, the gate already open, as different kids of mine were going here and there.

One of my oldest friends in this town came over, she'd retired from CPS, she'd been instrumental in the 1980s to guide me to the international adoption agency I'd initially used when I'd gone to Honduras, later steering me through the currents of DFACS when I continued adopting through the foster care system which was her domain for 30 years. She worked in town, my adoptions generally came through Texas. She's been my friend since Sarah was a pre-schooler.

She successfully battled through breast cancer, ten years clear now, only to find out this week that she has a MALT lymphoma.

Stunned, I just stood there crying. Really? Another massive battle for her? How is that fair?

She laid it all out for Grandma, who got that wide-eyed, yet shut down look of shock on her face, this always reminds her of Ellen, my late sister. Like me, Grandma just gets busy, trying to beat down the worry demons that tend to course through us all.

I told her, my lovely friend, that I had plenty of prayer warriors on my blog, could I ask for prayer there using her name which is Janet? I have her permission and I'm begging y'all for prayer. Her prognosis is good, I goggled everything later, yet the procedures are onerous of course, the battle can be debilitating.

And I'm whining about trauma?

Reality check.

I'd run through the entire gallon of paint, washed the brushes, eaten three baked potatoes, yeah I know, I'm a pig, but I'd sure worked up an appetite.

Tabby had somehow broken the shower head holder upstairs in my bathroom for the second time, the first time Super Glue repaired it for a year or so, but this time it, the Super Glue, squirted everywhere, down my fingers on both hands. Uh-oh.

I coped as I usually do, hollering my frustration, Lily came running with nail polish remover, which she'd heard would do the trick.

Yeah, it did, unsticking my fingers eventually, but there's a white residue, a crustiness that's gonna just have to wear off, I suppose, and the shower thingy is unfixable. Back to Lowes, I'll go. Daniel had put it on for me several years ago, the most modern thing I'd owned it seemed.

I fretted about the harsh chemicals I was soaking my fingers in, super glue itself is a chemical, we don't know where cancers originate, although chemicals play a big part in cell mutation.

Janet, a devoted yoga practitioner, she'd explained to me what Tai Chi was some 30 plus years ago, doesn't glue her fingers together clumsily like I might be prone to do, but we all suck up carcinogenic car exhaust, Lord knows the Hell that our food has encountered in the form of malathion, etc, and we inhale all sorts of everyday toxicity. I'm as baffled as anyone.

And I'm just terribly upset that she has to go through this again. It just doesn't seem fair.

I watched a fascinating National Geographic special, Aftermath: Population Zero about how much better off the earth would be without us piggish humans destroying it. A rather harsh solution...

A Real Pleasure In Moving On

I slowly painted my office all day long, a canary yellow, soft and warm, an example of the sun that I don't feel on my skin today. Yesterday's high was in the 30's. That's inexcusable. This is Georgia, for Pete's Sake.

Even though I recognize the telltale hairy root when I see it, I've usually already wrapped my hand around it before acknowledging that it's poison ivy, thus the itchy forearm I'm now sporting.

My new stove arrived and was christened with a pot of garlic beans, I ran my new washing machine all day long. Such luxuries.

Acknowledge that you are sad that things didn't turn out the way you wished they had. You are entitled to cry about that. Perhaps you feel like you gave up years of your life for nothing.

Recovery From Hazardous Parenting: How To Reclaim Your Life After Raising Children With Behavior Disorders continues to soothe my soul. I ran its words through my mind all day long as I mindlessly painted, in many ways feeling spurred on to totally physically change my entire existence and surroundings here to eradicate the memories of the unbelievable, unimaginable, and intolerable stress under which I've lived for so long.

Dr. Brenda McCreight goes on to discuss self-esteem recovery which is truly something I'd never considered I'd ever have to deal with, I've always been ballsy and confident, yet torn down badly over the last 17 years. Then there's depression recovery and anxiety recovery which means working on one's brain, "that has been habituated to respond to triggers by inducing an increased heart beat, forcing an onrush of adrenaline and cortisol through the brain, and leaving you with an overwhelming sense of panic."

Amen, sister.

"Get to the point," I anxiously snapped yesterday to a dear friend, who I know well enough to know she was choosing her words carefully, an unpleasant phone call about an older kid of mine with dangerously severe issues.

Acknowledge that the main trigger, your child, is no longer your full responsibility. Say it to yourself over and over.

When others let me know what this grownup, or another grownup is doing, I have to let it go. It is out of my control. They have free will, they've been taught correctly, although their choices often don't reflect that fact.

Was I enabling yesterday to pay a seat belt violation fine for Fabian? It was his 20th birthday gift. I didn't want to give him cash, knowing it'd be spent badly, maybe even illegally. I'd thought about taking him shopping for new clothes, but I'm wary even of that because he's chronically unemployed, yet not ever intrinsically motivated by a lack of clothes, or anything else, enough to find a job.

There's a bunch of dumb girls in this world that fall for handsome boys and buy them stuff, enabling them to not have to work. That's just gross to me.

A seat belt violation? Seriously? Do you have a death wish? I paid it online, always afraid to put cash into the hand of one who isn't always truthful.

Everything I do is fraught with implications, good and bad, unseen or misleading, underlying or undermining, it's very hard to always discern the right thing to do with so many mitigating factors.

He was not the grown kid that I'd discussed earlier on the phone, which indicates the difficulty I'll have in total recovery, since there are still so many stress inducers.

In stress recovery The Adoption Counselor states, "It's time to learn how to respond to your day based on what you need and want and wish.

Whoa...that's gonna take some geting used to, lemme tell ya.

You may still have other children at home to raise, so now when they ask for a ride somewhere you can decide what to do about that without first thinking about whether you can leave your challenged child or youth at home alone for ten minutes (resulting in a fire being set or your room prowled through and items missing) or what you will have to do to get him to come with you (resulting in swearing and maybe a new hole punched in the wall). Your brain will still be assuming that there are complications to everything, so learn to take a deep and tension releasing breath before your answer.

Oh my goodness, that is so me.

One who is now in prison once broke a van window out and peed in my front seat on purpose to indicate his 11 year old displeasure at having to accompany me, but I called it 'grounded to a grownup,' as he could never be left unattended.

Paloma would always punch Tabby because both had to be in the first seat of the van, Tabby for her own protection, and Paloma for everyone else's protection, yet that didn't work either. There was no feasible answer...I'd ended up with destruction or an injury to someone.

Jonathan would flat out refuse to go, knowing I wouldn't leave him alone, so therefore his negative behaviors controlled us all, resulting in many, many missed Sunday church services and other activities.

17 years of that. More'n 6,000 days of severe emotional trauma on me - stress and anxiety resulting in periodic depression and resignation to my oxygen-less existence.

Now for the best part - Moving On.

Bye-Bye.

Raising your child to young adulthood and independence (or semi independence) has been an exhausting and stress filled process. You have managed to help your child stay alive despite his risk taking behaviors and his lack of impulse control; and, despite the lack of appropriate services and the inadequate resources.

It's going to take me some time to unlearn my nervous condition, my fight-or-flight response to loud noises, my deep-seated fear, and all the other severely negative emotions that have been thrust upon me over the preceding years. I do still have many children here at home who also need to heal, who need me to be 24-7 with them, happy, smiling and nurturing them on into adulthood.

And I gotta tell you, even with rampant ODD here and zero impulse control issues, nowadays, in comparison to the past, it's a real pleasure here.

Last night Lily and CW serenaded me again with their guitars as I worked, we had a wonderful suppertime, Mayra asked to spend the night, plopped on the sofa with Sabrina, Martin tied their hair together, and this morning on a Saturday, I've already taken three teenagers to the high school to work on their course recovery credit - Mayra being one of them, having learned that the magic age of 18 didn't quite mean what she once thought it'd mean.

An 'I Told You So' moment that I'm refraining from pointing out, it's too obvious.

Wanna lose 35 pounds? Read this, Sarah blogged her view of it.