Eating Crap and Felling Like Crap - Or The Alternative

"Eeuuuuwww," I thought aloud at age 31 when I'd met an older woman at an Arkansas Youth Group Work Camp where Sarah and I'd joined my longtime mentor, Pastor Tracy, for a week long experience of helping others.

This woman had very wrinkled knees and I wondered to myself with all the idiocy of a then much younger woman, why on earth she'd choose to wear shorts.  That's never gonna happen to me, I vowed, I'll exercise and eat right.  I now wish I had beautiful skin like Tabby, or my grandbaby Alyssa, pictured here with her sweet Tia Tabby.

What happened is I'm now just not gonna wear sorts in public.  Duh, Cindy, we all wrinkle up eventually, especially field hands like me who don't wear sunscreen.  I'd rather be wrinkled up than have all those chemicals seeping into the largest organ, our skin.  Let my wrinkled up knees hang down to my ankles, at least I'm healthy.

Mercola writes, "One important point the research missed was that sometimes sunscreen can actually increase your risk of melanoma, especially in the Northern Hemisphere.

There are other studies showing that chronic UV (ultraviolet) light exposure may actually reduce the risk of melanoma."

I've long read Dr. Mercolas' writing with intense interest, he's very radical, yet on target, and last night as Lily and I ate serious mounds of freshly picked and immediately steamed Swiss Chard with a smattering of pepper jack cheese and a large dose of Balsamic vinegar, I told Lily, "You're gonna be very glad someday that your taste buds are what they are.  There's likely not another ninth grader that'd eat like you eat.  Girl, they chow down at McDonalds."

"They're nuts," she replied, finishing her plate and the rest of mine, running to pop us some popcorn in olive oil on the stove, served with Nutritional Yeast and Sea Salt.  Honey, that's living.  That microwave crap's gonna kill us all.

Chuy loves coffee, as do I, but I despise sugar in it and have taught him to avoid it as well.  Heckfire, there's none in this house anyway, so he douses his with milk.  I don't even like milk anymore, such a nasty animal product, I prefer rice milk, yet contrarily I do still eat cheese.

I'm lessening it though.  I mean, heck, I'll still down me some Krispy Kreme too.  Not a purist.

"I hadda eat at McDonalds Saturday," CW groaned after his Six Flags trip.  "It was nasty with a capital N, my stomach still hurts."

Raised as a vegetarian, he now eats meat sometimes yet he craves the beans and rice, or the whole wheat pasta dishes that many of my children initially wanna reject, because in foster care they thrived upon baloney on white bread or mac and cheese in a box.

I represent wholesome home cooked meals that unsettles them, yet every one who has grown up, returns for Mama's cooking.  "Got any black beans ready?" they'll ask hungrily.  "Wanna fry me up some tortillas?"  I have a huge, wonderfully seasoned black cast iron skillet.

Dr. Mercola explains today about how to lose weight, something most women are hunting info about, yet it's as simple as avoiding HFCS, refined carbs and non-food items. I credit my own 82 year old, very strong mother for teaching us about garden foods, raising us on fruits and vegetables before it was cool, and for modeling hard, hard work just 'cause it makes one happy.

Sarah and I think we know so much about food, yet she's taking a certificate credit course in nutrition and learning a ton, passing it on to me.  Daniel's future wife is finishing up her Master's Degree in Nutrition.

Food is fuel, it's delicious when done right, and it's so what I wanna pass on to my young'uns lest they fight a lifelong battle with their weight, a particular issue in height-challenged women like my incredibly beautiful Hispanic daughters.  Gina and Yolie are each 4'10" tall.

It may seem genetically unfair that 5'6" willowy lovely Sarah can pack in the food, but what she eats is so nutrient dense.

If'n I don't soon get off my butt and hook up the irrigation to the strawberries, I'm not gonna have them to eat, but this was on my mind as I washed the dishes, and I regurgitate my thoughts in order to process 'em better.

Claudia's gorgeous daughter, Sadie, impressed me so much, she shares the story here.  Like Chuy, she came out of the foster care system years ago in a challenging sibling group, now she's almost 18 years old.  This is so encouraging to me.

Claudia also wrote of being unable to MAKE a kid do something.

She's a social worker, she's an adoptive parent who's been baptized by fire, gone through serious challenges and issues, knows her stuff.  Good writing there, great thoughts.

Yolie and Chuck's baby girl, Mae, had her fifth birthday yesterday.  A party at the park, both sides of the family plus friends added up to a great time.

Home in the evening to water my very parched garden, the dogs following after me, the Chihuahua cat not trained enough yet to stay on the stone paths, not that he weighs enough to compact the soil, but his scrambling around is tough on plants that barely have a footing at all what with no rain to anchor their roots.

A former social worker in Mississippi who reads my blog and types her thoughts to my phone from her phone, I always get a Verizon stamp on her messages, just sent me a message that she simply couldn't get the thought of Chuy's eyes out of her mind as she's had to remove children from difficult situations. "Chuy has many people praying for him after he felt moved to write," is exactly what I wanna hear.

Again, folks always ask how they can help me, I always reply, "by praying," illustrating how deep is my faith.  We're not needing material things so much as protection and open doors, or emotional support via the growth and confidence that comes through time and experience.  Moving the hands of God through prayer is my desire.  I want what God wants for me and for my children.

My own pastor Tony had called yesterday evening, bolstering me up out of the blue.  Always the cynic, faltering through life, "Where'd that come from?" I'd warily asked him in response to a compliment about my family from him.

Like a traumatized child, I too am slightly suspicious of good fortune, be it a compliment or a blessing.

I need to find my old self again, the goofy optimist that hadn't yet been so burned by mean humans and bizarre, dangerous experiences.  On Facebook, being with old friends, those that'd known me way back when, I'm talking as a school girl, or even as a mother to just the one child who'll soon be 39 years old, those who knew me when I laughed all the time and sailed through life versus the cringing, shocked fool I feel I've become after so many years of extreme trauma.

And my almost 39 year old Sarah?  Her husband, now 46 and pictured below, and she celebrated his birthday this weekend also.  Ray and Hazel spent Friday night with me.

I imagine Chuy's now flat out whooped from verbalizing such a profound expression of how he feels and what he remembers.  Emotional exhaustion can be the most difficult, this I know from decades of living through it.

He's been playing Dofus or something on the computer, a mindless activity all weekend long, but I know it helps.  He's crazy about Riley, the dog his older sibling had given him.  I get all the levels that he's going through right now, the processes involved in healing.

Yolie'd been teaching Path classes this weekend to prospective adoptive parents, somehow also cooking a ginormously delicious cake from scratch and throwing this lovely party.  Chuy's words took her out at the knees.  She'd dissolved into a crying jag, her own emotional scab ripped off again.

She's smart and super stable, but this primal wound will exist forever in one form or another.

"It won't always hurt this much," I'd told Chuy, "but the reality is that it will always be a severely painful memory.  You just hafta find a way to live with it."

Three weeks left in the school year always results in some unsettled children, it's tough on them emotionally, yet every single one of them will not mind the long summer days of being at home, not hearing me have to yell, "Five more minutes!" to the dawdling ones.

The murder had occurred somewhere deep in Mexico, fairly near Cancun, he was moved up to the Juarez/El Paso area where white folks are an uncommon minority.  In the several days I'd spent there, both in '91 and later in 2000, I'd not seen another one, yet it didn't occur to me that Chuy's six year old vantage point had never interacted with a white lady at all.

In 1991 I'd adopted the Lieutenant, pictured here with the niece and nephew he then didn't know would so bless his life.  My son, Daniel, had also had a parent die suspiciously - fingers pointed at another relative.

I'd taken Yolie, Edgar, CW and Lily with me on that trip ten years ago.  A Spanish-speaking white woman with brown children had been a shock to his system.  How much so was the hard landing in rural Georgia?

I liked his description of coming to our house where all the other children were so welcoming.  It's part of our make-up in that my kids tend to only trust each other to a large degree, knowing that the others here do truly comprehend where they came from, and how trauma affects trust.  As they get older they venture out, dating and beginning to trust non-Bodie children, but having this ready set of brother/sister friends has always been an advantage here.

But his extreme lack? His severe deprivation?  Even I, after listening to all five kids for ten years, didn't have a true picture of the severity.  They do not often talk about it, but food issues here have been rampant, not so much though with Chuy.  His lack of shelter as a toddler troubled him for a very long time.

I feel a corner has been turned, yet I also know that I need to back off a bit, let him continue finding his way, faltering and slowly warming up to me.  He, too is not emotionally needy, but reassurance is necessary.  He might even now shut down, this vulnerability and emotional exposure might make him slam shut as he's often done.  I'm hoping that all the comments, emails and texts though has spoken to his inner strength.

He's an internally and externally strong guy who's been severely damaged.

"You know you can live here forever," I'd told him, "You and your silly Chihuahua cat."  I'd gone on to detail at what ages some of my older children had still been living at home.  Now that I've been finished with adopting, the stability here has exponentially increased.

His older brothers were both led out in handcuffs, into police cars, both have committed several other crimes, but both are now much closer to me emotionally than they've been in the last ten years.  "I'm still here," I tell them, even though we've had to live separately for family safety.  They call often and we visit when we can do so.

I don't talk about it much either, it's been emotionally painful, very sad, and we've all been left with the what ifs. This was not how I'd dreamed it would be, but it is the reality.

Chuy struggles with survivor guilt, the only sib that will successfully live out his childhood here within our home and that, of course, bothers him.  He knows though that he wasn't saddled at birth with severe mental health diagnoses and that too makes us both question God aloud.  Why?  Why?  Why?

We just don't know.  I share his confusion.

His testing behaviors have only involved huge rudeness and defiance, to me, to coaches, to teachers and anyone else who might try and get close to him.  No violence, thank God.  His testing behaviors have not occurred often at all, therefore when it does happen, the intensity can be shocking to me.

Overall he's been fairly easy to raise, especially in comparison to other issues we've dealt with here.

"I was beaten for crying," he told me the other night when I suggested through my own tears, that crying was an appropriate release.

"But not here Chuy," I pointed out, still not getting what that early childhood trauma had done to him.

It's an extraordinarily difficult mountain to climb, getting over one's past.

He and I will still butt heads, we will still disagree on what are appropriate behaviors and limits, he'll still test me, he'll still howl his inner pain via difficult behaviors, but we did turn a corner this weekend.

He's extremely handsome but still needs reassurance, he's very intelligent, but will likely still buck his teachers,  he'll get angry and irritated with his sibs, "Why can't you just follow rules," he'll holler or stress to the two younger ones, he'll be moody after visits with them, sad and aggravated.

His short fuse temper might get him fired at some point, his emotionally shut-down demeanor will likely irritate his girlfriends, if we ever get a new youth pastor, he's gonna find some major arms-crossed, sullen, "We aren't gonna trust you to not leave us," Bodie teenagers attitude.

It's just the way it is.  This is a reality in the adoption of older children.  I've taken so much Hell from so many people, those who'd criticize or misunderstand us, blame me for my children's behaviors that began years before I met them, or just be Haters to us.  I prayed in church today that I could forgive and shake off the level of animosity I feel about it all.

It's been tough.

Your Comments For Chuy

I'm sending all your texts, emails and comments to Chuy's phone. Your responses mean the world to him. Especially since so many of y'all are parenting children and teenagers just like him. Thank you for your kind words and support. We are all walking blindly through some very uncharted waters.

An Extraordinarily Painful Post That ALL Adoptive Mothers Should Read

My 16 year old son wrote this lengthy, gut-wrenching narrative last night.  I have his permission, of course, to share it.  He uses his given name here, not the nickname we call him by.  I am not proofreading, nor breaking it into paragraphs, this is his story, and it's staggeringly horrific, very, very painful to read.

I cried my eyeballs out about it.  Sobbed until late last night.  The only thing I'd disagree about is even though he referred to me as aged, at that time that we met I was only 47.  He thinks he remembers face makeup on me then.  I don't ever wear face makeup.  I must've had on some scary lipstick or something that day.

I deeply, deeply love him.  I admire and respect him.  I am blown away by his words.  I am certain that he will grow up to be an amazing man.

Here it is:

When he opens his eyes in the morning. He sees nothing but the sky. Sleeping outside. But keeping it all inside. Never telling the full truth of his past. The true hurt and suffering that can't be told, but only experienced. Experiences that he suppresses back in his memories, but is constantly reminded of by his new, everyday life. Like seeing a child with their mom; a child with their father; a brother and sister together; a brother and another brother; smiles on peoples' faces, but that appear to be genuine. Not reminded because he was used to seeing them, but because he has always been neglected and withheld from the true joys of having someone truely care. The unexplainable comfort of a mother's arms. The unfamiliar security of a father. Always seeing families together, yet not knowing what it is like to have one. Always feeling clueless when asked about who his parents are... Or were. Having had seen things in person that his new peers only see in movies; horror movies. Being shocked when someone says "I love you"; since these words were never spoken to him before. Walking in a world that seems to be more cruel than Hell itself. Teachers see just another student, but he has learned things that they can't teach. Friends see just another friend in the distance, but he only sees their outlines, and seems to just see through them. Watching families talk and enjoy each others' company, while being the only one who knows the true bond of family; when family is the only thing that you have. He would never dream of raising a fist to someone else, but he fights tears with every passing moment. Neglected by his parents. Forgotten by society. He alone knows who he is, and where he's been. Knowing where he has been just doesn't seem to serve any purpose to him though, because he never knows where he is going. Always waking up in a new bed, or on a new floor. Never spending enough time in a single house to remember where the bathroom is. Never remembering where he wakes up. Never seeming to care if he even does wake up. He has gotten to the unfortunate state where the riding in the seat of a police car is become a too familiar and common event in his life. He faces the daily struggle of trying to hold his composure. Trying to hold his stability; not for him. but for the family that he still has. Since the cold nightmare of an event, he seems to not speak a word to anyone. Only the light whispers that he says to his little brother and sister before they go to sleep. Reminding them that he loves them. Feeling that he serves little or no purpose in this world as the middle child of a forgotten group of children who cannot even fathom the trials that they have faced, or the new hardships of what is to come in the too near of a cold future. Only being four years old, he finds it to be a normal day A day where he doesn't remember yesterday, but not to his knowledge; a day that he will never forget. Waking up he simply looks at the wall beside him. Then stares at an unusual object above his bed. He looks across the room to see his mother. He then asks her what it is, and gets the memorable reply of "What? Oh that? That is the cross. The cross where a man died to save you. He is also the man that we named you after. Now come Jesus; come out of bed." A man who died to save him? This doesn't seem to make any sense, nor does it matter to him anymore, as a few moments pass and the conversation is forgotten. The memory of today seems to be followed by only one other event, where he hears a room filled with noise and too many distracting sounds to pass his curiosity. Getting up, he begins to make his efforts into more of a rush, as whatever is happening seems to be quite exciting and is very attention-catching. As he enters the room his eyes widen; his body freezes; and his scars begin to form. The horror unfolds as he listens to a very fierce argument between his mother, and the man that he has grown up thinking of as his father. Never knowing what the argument was about, or how it started didn't even matter anymore. He closes his eyes. Then opens them as he recognizes familiar cries; his brothers and sister are in the corner together. All crying and screaming at the two who are fighting to stop, but none of them looking up even once. The forceful pull of a man he doesn't know throws him against the wall that his brothers and sister are. An officer. An officer, who unknowingly, had come just a second too late. His little sister and little brother are behind the two of his older brothers, but they all face the corner as they cry with what seems to be no resistance. Looking up, he sees the man who had pulled him to the wall beginning to yell at his parents, but with absolutely no meaning. With the quick reach of his mother's arm; the closest weapon is grasped tightly and fiercely; giant blade as tall as he was. Finding his will to divert his eyes seemingly impossible, he witnesses the most scarring event that he will have ever experienced as the blade finds its way to the man he called his father. After witnessing this, the young and frightful child then joins the flooding waters in the corner of the room. The wailling screams of 4 children, as they look up to hear the sounds of the brutal argument come to a halt, are only replaced by a silence that only deepens the memories. Time freezes as the next moment passes. Then it slowly creeps back up as the faded voices of many policemen crowd around the murderer; their mother. The ground that they were barley standing on becomes unrecognizable as the new thick, red carpet covers the it. The fuzzy sounds of the officers are muted by the shock and horror of what he had just seen. Not even noticing that he is the only person left where he had joined the rest of his family in the corner, he finally comes back to reality when he is rushed across the room to the cold streets that are filled with flashing red and blue lights; across the room covered in blood. Before he passes under the doorway that led to his new future, he turned around, looked at the scene, and fell completely silent at the sight of his small footprint in the blood stained room. Having no other family, the first place that they were sent to was with their grandparents. Not a bad decision you could suppose. But you would be very wrong. Greeted with a smile as the police officers just handed the five children over they had no choice but to accept them as their new family and this as their new home. A very rugged and worn down home that would hold as many dreadful memories as his past. A quick wave as the cars with the lights on the top of them drove off was the moment that the greeting smiles left his grandparents. Many shoves and forceful gestures later and they were in their new home. A step to the side, and they had crossed the entire house it seemed, or should I say the very crammed and unwelcoming trailer. What they had thought would be a new start was just another dead-end. A place where complete neglect and child abuse held an absolute presence. The first night was the worst. It was the worst, not because of what happened, but because they were not yet used to what would keep happening. A cold night outside, and the only slightly heart-warming touch of his older brother as he had laid himself down on the splintering porch, was only the beginning of a series of some very dark memories. All laying side by side. All having the same thought: Why? Why must we be forced through so much? Why must there be so much cruelty in this world? Why must this be the worlds I live in? What must this be the very opposite of "living"? Sleeping outside with an old rug found as their covers for the night. Only able to sleep because of the completely wearying crying that had taken place only a day before. As morning crept up there was a silence across the entire horizon in every direction. The quick realization of having had been put in a secluded area in the middle of nowhere came over him. As Jesus woke up, he could find nothing to do; nothing to do, but cry. Awaking his older brother with this only made him all the more aware that he was not asleep. It made him aware that although he was not sleeping that he was living a nightmare. An old trailer filled with two hateful people that could, but would not, take care of him and his family. He found himself completely unable to even consider them as his parents in any way. After more searching in the horizon, The now five year old child saw that the only thing around him in walking distance was a bus. He knew it was a bus because he remembered seeing one as it would pass the outside of the window in his old home. It took the older kids to school. After an eternity, everyone was awake. They decided, for some odd reason, to venture into the trailer to see what was for breakfast. "Whatever you can find over there!" That was the only reply they got as an arm extended with a finger pointing at a very old looking cupboard. Well they got to eat breakfast; if that's what you can call it. Some leftover, crushed, and unrecognizable mixture of what was supposed to be their food was found inside a box. It wasn't much, but it was at least edible. This was a daily routine. Day after day the same this was what was expected. Everything predictable, until a night filled with dark clouds covered the skys. Flashes of light scattered here and there, followed by the violent echoes of thunder as it shook the unstable boards. A click, a sudden thought came to mind. The bus. Why not go to it? It provided more cover than they had where they were, and it for some reason seemed to never move. The rush of five figures ran across the dirt, none of them seeming to ever get any further than an arm's length away. After reaching the bus they realized why it never moved. Because their initial thoughts were right on the first morning that they awoke in this Hell-hole: they were in the middle of nowhere. This bus was broken down with busted out windows and rusty metal scattered all around it. Whatever. It was still better. It did have a roof after all. This was something that brought at least the slightest of joy to them. It was away from the abusive couple, and it was much more protective from the harsh elements of the weather. None of them thought to think about the morning though. About the couple who was supposed to be taking care of them. What they would think of the sudden disappearance of them. In all honesty, probably nothing, If not nothing, then it would strike a slight jolt of joy at the riddance them. And that was right. When they finally returned to the house after awakening, they greeted with two faces that showed much anger. That anger wasn't just anger, but multiple beating waiting to happen. Quite reluctantly for them though, there was a visit from the all too familiar police officers a few days after. Looks of horror and a very shady excuse was all that was needed to remove the five children once more to, yet another, "home". All memories appeared to be the same for the next year. The repeating memories of the silent rides in the police cars. The sleepless nights at the new places that he was somehow expected to call "home". Why would he call any of these places "home"? He only knew one place to be his home, but that place seemed to be covered in horrifying memories that seemed to be written out by Satan himself. Everywhere he went there seemed to be a group of new faces. There was always a house for him and his torn apart family to go to, but there was never a place that they could call home. The continuous rides and greetings came to be almost second nature to him; greetings that would very quickly become departing words. This happened over and over, until there seemed to be a place that they could call their home. A man named Issac and his wife took him and his family in. They cared for them. And although they were always awaiting their time to leave, this seemed to never happen. He even started to go to school. He made friends, and seemed to completely forget what had happened. He even seemed to accept the new couple as his parents. Almost as if they had always been there for them; as if they were...family. Time passed. Jesus was beginning to accept them as his parents. They seemed to act the part, and they showed compassion to his family. Everything was going all too well, of course. He should have known be now that all good things must come to an end. Those people came again. The people dressed in their matching uniforms. POLICE. Heart break was not even a start to the feeling that overcame him. He didn't cry though. Not even a tear. Not because he didn't feel like it, but because he felt the familiar lump in his throat that wouldn't let him speak, or utter a single word. He simply waited until he saw who had come with them. A white lady. There were few white people that he had seen before, but she was accompanied by a few others. They were children, but they weren't white like her. He just went ahead and accepted the fact that it was time for another trip to another house after another ride in another police car. But he was wrong. It wasn't to a house. The ride was to a giant building that read HOTEL. A what? Who cared? It looked very nice! There were many people who greeted them with smiles as they entered, regardless of how terrified they seemed, and were. The lady seemed nice, and very oddly, she even spoke Spanish. She made some small talk to them behind her slightly aged grin, Her eyes appeared slightly dark behind the face that was covered in makeup, but they appeared even more bright than dark. They seemed hopeful. They gave that light look that was just enough to allow me to at least force another fake smile to another stranger. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten everything. They were all about in the hotel room. Some watching T.V. Some laying in the bed. Others scattered across the floor with a quickly emptying bag of many plastic toys. He didn't know how they were able to so quickly adjust to what had happened and to what was happening, but just made the quick decision to join everyone. Somehow this was something that could; even after the darkest of moments, behind the deepest of scars, under the most covered and neglected of emotions, have him force a smile. A smile that had not happened in far too long for a child. A smile of true happiness. The next morning after having had been used to eating the garbage that was supposed to be food, Jesus was overwhelmed by shock as something of a sweet aroma came to him in his awakening. This was slightly uncomfortable, but in a good way. In a way that would set a very jagged, shattered, and torn apart heart in the direction of recovery. A quick ride, and a flight through the skies was all that had separated him from being able to pursue something that he had only heard the word of. A word that he had never quite known the meaning of. A word that could only be defined by having had experienced it. The word: Living. Not having to go through a day in fear of the shadow of death that always lingered in the air. Not having to wonder if there would be food that day. Not having to worry about the only thing that he cared about; his family. The new life that was placed before him was a great blessing. A blessing that he had absolutely no idea how great it was, and still is. A blessing that he still has no idea how amazing has been to him. To me. To Jesus. I, Jesus, had finally been able to live an entire day where everything seemed normal; or at least for me. When the plane finally touched down in Georgia, I was unaware of where I even was, and I didn't even care. Me and my family took a drive through a new environment. A new area of the world. New surroundings that I would would unknowingly come to call an actual: HOME. Unfamiliar faces greeted us as before the car had even stopped in the driveway of a very large house, as if they had known us all our lives. With that new feeling that I hadn't yet experienced too often, a smile came upon my face as other children came to us with warm welcomes before we had even made it to the doorway in the garage. A very friendly environment is enough to make someone feel out of place when they have been used to just the opposite. When all we knew was hostile environments that were ever changing before us, and before we even had time to blink, in an awakening of another household almost every day. But it seemed that that had changed. Real bedding, real blankets, and a real home had finally been presented. All I could do was wonder in awe as I wondered how long this would last, just as every other house had only become a distant memory that came to haunt me when I awake to more new faces. But I didn't know. I didn't know that this would become the place that I would call home. The place that I would be able to become emotionally attached to, and not then have my emotions simply thrown aside. But what else was I to think? It was just a habit. Days passed, and a six year old boy soon became seven. The day seemed no different than most others. The "Happy Birthday" greeting somewhere in the day. But I was awfully thrown off when I was confronted with presents. With gifts. I had never received a gift before. Overwhelmed by joy, I had completely forgotten that I was holding an unopened, wrapped box with a surprise. After a few moments of a cheerful grinning, I recollected myself and set my attention, once again, on the present. I don't remember what it was anymore, but I do remember cherishing it for a very long time. The first gift that I had ever gotten. And then came Christmas, which came with more gifts. The simplicity of a gift to a child is something that most parents have to the point where it's not even a gift anymore. To where it is just an expected item that they wanted, decorated with a bow and paper that would soon be in the trash. But a real gift is something that surprises someone, and is something that they then build a quick attachment to. Not because it's a something else for them to have, but because it is something from someone that they care about and that cares about them. And, although it took me a while to realize this, I WAS cared about for once. I was LOVED for once. And it was something that cannot just be given. It is something that takes time and patience to prove that it is true. It takes true compassion to build the understanding that they are loved to that individual. It is something that most people don't ever come to realize until it is too late. Until there is a time of passing. But after spending so much time testing this lady. After spending so much energy trying to see if she cared, setting off tears, emotional breakdowns, and temporarily becoming someone that I had despised for ruining my childhood; a hateful person, I finally came to realize that she really did love me. That I was loved. When vacations come, and we left the house, I would confide to my older brothers. I would ask them where we were going this time. I would wonder where we would sleep now. I would have a mind full of thoughts that were stains of my memories of the childhood that I never had. Much time passed. Many attempts of trying to prove to myself that this white lady was just the same as everyone else in my life had ever been. But only to disprove my own theory every time. After much time, when I finally became thirteen, I had felt the understanding that this would be where I were going to be living from now on. I came to the reality that I actually had a place to call "Home", and that I could feel a sense of security when I fell asleep at night. Where safety, joy, and family weren't just dreams in the distance. Sixteen. I am now sixteen, and although I still have moments of doubt, I still hold it to my heart that I am loved by someone that I can call my mother. Whether or not it is a biological relation between us, I know that it is a REAL-ation that we have. Despite the arguments we have, the cold eyes that gaze across the room when caught in moments of anger, I know that there is only one person who I can call a real mother to me. And that is you. So thank you for everything that you have done for me and my brothers and sister. This is something that I just feel has been needing to be said, but I could never find it in myself to confront you myself to tell you. Not without breaking down into tears as I did in my past. Though not the same tears, but tears of joy. The, still odd, ability to realize how much you care you really do care, whether you can fit it into your busy schedule to show it, I still know. So thank you mom. I love you. Sincerely Chuy (Ellis Jesus Bodie). -Jesus Montes- 

My upstairs TV futilely tried to tell me, on a morning news talk show, "I can make you hot."

"No, you can't," I retorted, feeling instantly dumb because one should only verbally respond to the umpires when disagreeing with a call on MLB TV.  Other TV characters can't hear you.  Umps can, if you holler loud enough, though they rarely reverse their calls.  I guess they're just stubborn like that.

I never heard the hotness spiel, instead I immediately turned my TV off in disgust because even if she could make me hot, I was too disturbed as the mother of daughters to allow her to continue teaching such nonsense.

That's what we want for our daughters?

I'd prefer a book telling them, "I Can Get You Through High School," which is my minimal expectation that's occasionally been tossed back in my face, more so by sons than by daughters, but still I know it's paralytic upon their future earning potential.

Don't we have enough skanky pants?  Can't we see some strong females succeeding instead of being portrayed as a B word because they're ambitious and motivated?

I become more and more reclusive, more outright disgusted with The Real World, preferring to weed, to ruminate, to mind to my own business out here where it's pretty and it smells good with the honeysuckle rampantly blooming everywhere.

My only pair of work shoes started disintegrating on me.  Dang, I love these shoes. Bet I can hot glue the sole back on tight.

Lily and I ambled through the gardens last night after supper eating strawberries and wondering how that big ole turtle had gotten into the chicken moat.  I'd made a very large three cheese mushroom lasagna from scratch, something that takes a long time, only to hear the Oppositional Ones complain, but I've slowly learned that they always complain so I mentally discount it.

One of 'em had a soccer game later.  I debated complaining - hoping that'd show him how it feels, but I knew that'd be as childish as it 'd be pointless.  It was a good game, the U19 games are action packed, Boss from church came down to watch and support my sons which I appreciate here as they flounder between youth pastors.

I kinda doubt if my older sons will allow themselves to even listen to, much less attach to, a third youth pastor in hardly as many years.  I'm not looking forward to having to remind them again that everyone's human and deserves basic respect.

So back to that lady.  No, you can't make me hot.  It's a physical impossibility at a certain age, size, or mindset. And I don't like you using that term to young ladies anywhere.  We need smart women, we need capable women, ambitious and satisfied with their work, be it housework or corporate work, we need the freedom to choose our paths that aren't based on looks, hotness or fashion.  Have women not gotten anywhere?

No wonder parents everywhere are having a tough go of trying to instill, "It's what's inside that counts."

The gorgeous sunset reminded me that it's only the eternal things that count anyway.

Just A Garter Snake

I really couldn't remember if I'd read this book in the last 30 years since it had been published or not, so I did.

I've always bought into its philosophy, so much so, that it had immediately spilled over into my live on less, or my back-to-the-land dreams that I've carried within me for, I dunno, ever.

But as I weeded and planted yesterday I thought about Scotty.  His behavior has been ornery at best, last week Dr. Mandy asked me to think about any issues that might've arisen lately as traumatized children don't just reasonably say, "Well this _____ happened so now I'm gonna cry about it."

The reality is something happens, they stew about it, simmering inside, and then explode, leaving the parent forgetting about the initial possible cause, but as I thought, the light bulb went on, an oh yeah moment, as I remembered Scotty's tears over losing Pastor Chris a month ago,

And now he's acting out.  I shoulda seen it coming, but I got bogged down in everything else.

People come and go in everyone's lives, a normal turn of events, but in traumatized kids, in those who have huge abandonment and rejection issues, it is magnetized a thousand times.  Even the end of the school year can post grief challenges in younger children, having to say good-bye to their very awesome teachers.

Fortunately, in our family's case, the teacher turnover is almost nil, my kids will see their old teachers again and again, both in school or out in the community, it's a huge blessing for us.  Ms Carr's husband identified yesterday's snake as a garter snake.

"I can't even see it in the picture," Yolie'd told me, both of us knowing she hadn't wanted to really look for it in the first place.  Her family's still dealing with the loss of Ella.

Martin had earlier mispronounced it as, "Just a garden snake, Mom, it's OK."  I pointed out that just because it was in the garden, didn't make it a garden snake.  It might have rattles in the garden ya know.

We're not ones who kill snakes, so I was happy to hear that the one we'd let slither off was harmless.

Last night I finally left our property for the first time since church on Sunday, I drug myself out to church on Wednesday night to hear bang-up teachings by my Pastor Tony.  Really, really good stuff about being in the midst of a storm, a place I'd seemed to have dropped anchor for about the last ten years it seems.

If I never ever left our property, if I could have groceries delivered, unless it was beach time or a Braves game, I'd be happy as a clam here always wallowing in my gardens, well-fed from the land, happy in my work, and feeling as if I'm not contributing to the massive damage done to our planet by excess driving, fast food pigging out, mindless glazed-brain shopping, or whatever else it is that amuses folks.

Normal Nutbird Residents

CW, 16 next Tuesday, a sniper after supper, unabashedly enjoying himself, because he can nowadays.

If these last dozen children take a couple of decades to grow up, I'm fine with that, they're a joy to raise.  Usually.  They're a lotta work, but I'm fine with that, it keeps me from having to join a gym.

I've often wailed, "We just wanna be normal," in response to some extremely stressful and very dangerous situations, and, to me, normal might appear quite different from another's regular normal.

To me it only means we are safe.  Safe from assaults, rages, attacks, and explosions.  That's it.  Just safe.

If I were allowing these attacks, it'd be on me.

But I've fought these attacks, I've sought out a tremendous amount of help, resources, therapies, and protection.

The end result was verbal snipes at me for 'giving up on a child' by folks who'd never had to try and sleep with one eye open, or who'd never had to spring between one who didn't care who they hurt and their victim, as I tried to protect others. Cut with a knife once, bruised often...but not anymore.

And now?  We are kinda normal.  So much so that blogging isn't necessarily cathartic for me as there's nothing to purge, other than my still simmering resentment at so many years of having to endure violence.

Our dinners are calm, no one screaming they wanted whatever I didn't fix, nor  are they slamming food on the floor, nor hitting someone.  This should be a minimal expectation of mine, right?

Martin got up from the table, belching like a truck driver,  "That was Grandma," he joshed, after I suggested he refrain from blowing us away like that in Grandma's presence.  JoJo'd taken the sit down together dinner opportunity to ask us all to examine his armpit hair growth progress.

Martin's been through Perfectly Polished, JoJo hasn't.  Either way, I've got some work here to do before I send them out in the real world.

I've spent two solid days on housework, to the point of again emptying every single kitchen drawer, vacuuming them out, and making sure nothing is superflously taking up space, another truckload of stuff to donate, another pile for recycling and one for trash.  Clean kitchen counters - long, empty and gleaming, all beds made, all floors vacuumed - and this is a huge house.

I know that I'm doing this not just to clean, but to eradicate extremely bad memories, to change up everything.

A complainer is yelling in the laundry room right now, but he, like his entire sibling group, is extremely oppositional.  To me this is kinda normal.  He's not really mad about a specific shirt, he's mad that his birth parents feel short of the mark.  I get it.  He's not gonna hurt someone.  He's allowed to express his inner pain, even though it has nothing to do with my laundry capabilities.  I washed six loads yesterday, hung everything up.

He later verbally allowed me to publish both pictures, one of him in his usual lazy TV watching mode, another of him dressed for school.  He's a silly, silly guy, emotionally difficult, complex, troubled at times, but overall very, very loveable.

I haven't been outside to work since Saturday.  I haven't left out property since Sunday.  We haven't had soccer.  Today I'll work outside until suppertime.

I have been outside to harvest lettuce, spinach, onions and strawberries.  Lily ran outside after supper to pick strawberries, something she's done all her life, only to encounter this snake.  Texting the picture resulting in all my boys running outside to check it out, not our usual mice-eating black snake.

Faith, Ya Gotta Have Faith

The new blogger template's time stamp shows time of publication, not original writing time stamp.  I wrote this one yesterday and walked off with it still unpublished.

We ARE a dog loving bunch, there's no doubt about it.  I love my Riley the Chihuahua Cat, Shatter, Lizzie, Tia, Princess, Pudding, Rosie and Amelia.

We're all kinda crushed over losing Ella, Chuck and Yolie's incredibly sweet-natured mastiff.  For Yolie it brings up all of her loss issues, she's truly going to need to cry for a week, she must let the tears flow, or risk serious emotional damage from holding it all inside.  It's heartbreaking to watch as her mom, and she's just as heartsick to watch her own two children deeply grieve.

Gina'd brought all her compost stuff over as she does, not just on Earth Day, but almost every week, too environmentally minded to toss it into the landfill, and I love that about her.  I knew then about Ella,  knew she'd be heading to the vet, but I was still hopeful about a better outcome.  I didn't wanna be the one to tell Gina, nor Daniel, who I'd been texting during the Braves game.  Yolie needed to do that.

My dad, Grandpa, was most decidedly not a dog lover, not at all.  We're feeding all the kids the party line about Ella, and our other dogs Ty and Babe, Max and Lucky, Sarah's dog Roscoe, even my brother Gary's dog Savannah, that Grandpa's taking care of them in Heaven.

My sister's 16th anniversary of being gone from this earth just passed the other day.  I was teetering on the edge all week, sad and blue, easily moved to tears over nothing, still missing her like crazy, and my very logical mom expressed the very deep anger she still feels over not being allowed in Ellen's hospital room at the time of her death.

"We're doing procedures," they dismissively told my mom, and Ellen died alone.  Mom's still furious.

Dad's death, in contrast, was a beautiful event, as he quietly and peacefully died with all of us hovering on his bed, telling him good-bye, and that we loved him.

"Don't worry about me, Cindy," he whispered, before falling into unconsciousness, "I know where I'm going."  Yeah, me too, you get to go see Ellen.  I'm stuck here without him to emotionally support and guide me. I'm almost 58 years old and I still need my dad.

That's how it should be though when one has lived a long, happy life.  Parents leave their kids.  We'll be along soon enough.

Sarah's now the age Ellen was when she died in 1996, Daniel's the age of Ellen's first husband, Alan who passed away at 26 in 1983.  I was only 28 then, shocked and blown away by the loss.

All this stuff?  All our earthly irritations, celebrations, joy and sadness?  Our striving, our families, our careers, our pets?

Honestly, without a deep, unbudging, soul-strengthening, cavernous, and abiding faith, I'd just put my head down on my desk and cry all day long.

I'd tried to explain to CW yesterday why I believe as I do, he's almost 16, kinda clueless as he's been sheltered, nurtured, encouraged, protected and loved every minute of his life.  "Honey, it's my faith," I'd stressed.  He's seen me get up every single challenging day and walk it out to the best of my ability, making mistakes, blundering, floundering, and/or succeeding and moving forward.

Instead of wallowing, I'm gonna clean the house, blast praise and worship music through my ear buds, sing loudly and off key, and be grateful for all my family members who've somehow molded me into who I am now.

Thanks y'all.  No sarcasm, no veiled references, no inferences, no nothing.

I'm A Broken Record, Or Maybe Just Broken

Oh, well thank you Captain Obvious, let's file this under, "Duh. No Kidding."

Several factors have been found to shorten telomeres, including smoking, radiation and psychological stresses such as early life maltreatment and taking care of a chronically ill person.


Telomeres shortened faster in kids exposed to two or more types of violence, says Shalev, a post-doctoral researcher at the Duke Institute for Genome Sciences & Policy in Durham, N.C. Unless that pattern changes, the study suggests, these kids could be expected to develop diseases of aging, such as heart attacks or memory loss, seven to 10 years earlier than their peers.


There's nothing about my unpopular decision to not have two specific teenagers here in our home, that makes me have second thoughts.


I feel terrible that I fought such an uphill, impossible battle for nearly ten years, in and out of court and working with DJJ, chasing after just the right mental health professionals via Pathways or Advantage, after exhausting private avenues via Dr. G, Dr. C and Dr. Mandy, trying absolutely everything to virtually no avail.


That my young kids had to witness all sorts of domestic violence incidents against me, and others, has burned a hole in my soul.  I grieve, I stress out about it, I yammer to Dr. Mandy, cry and wail about it to Yolie, grumble to my mom, and then go weed, weed, weed until my raging thoughts are once again under control.


There are some children that do not do well in families, that need so much more extra professional help, that wraparound services can't even begin to touch. I bitterly now know this from experience.


I look at my fairly normal 12 kids still here at home and my heart aches for all they've witnessed and experienced.  That I took the ugly step, fought the last battle with the court's blessing, that I will not have certain kids even visit in our home is due to my own shortened telomeres, our group PTSD, and the obvious fact that I dearly want Tabby, and the 11 others, to grow up normally and to achieve her dreams of being a teacher, and their other various goals.


"Can you afford college for me?" she asked, after hearing on the school playground, of all places, that it was expensive.


Yes, it is expensive, but if one is willing to sacrifice and to follow down the trail of scholarships and foundations, it can be done, I've already done so with nearly a dozen kids.  I'm happy to do so. I thrive on those kinds of challenges.


I'm not a magician, I'm not Super Mom, I'm just a 57 year old energetic, dedicated old bat who will work very hard every day, but I can not, I will not, allow the level of violence that we've previously lived under to infect, or affect, my children anymore.


Tabby's a lovely, once severely traumatized, yet very resilient, child who needs normal behavior redirection, supervision, and a ton of love and attention.  Yet back then if I ever even glanced her way lovingly, there'd be immediate hell to pay by The One Who Must Control Everything.


If I'm still twitching at the thought, still trying to recover, then how much so for Tabby?  Or Sabrina who routinely had her clothes cut up or destroyed by TOWMCE? Or my sons who scattered like fire ants whenever she came into a room?

Shalev says there is hope for these kids. His study found that, in rare cases, telomeres can lengthen. Better nutrition, exercise and stress reduction are three things that may be able to lengthen telomeres, he says.

The study confirms a small-but-growing number of studies suggesting that early childhood adversity imprints itself in our chromosomes.

"We know that toxic stress is bad for you," says Nathan Fox, a professor of human development at the University of Maryland and co-author of the 2011 paper. "This paper provides a mechanism by which this type of stress gets 'under the skin' and into the genes."

Digitizing

I have loved books all my life, no doubt about it, they've never let me down, they've entertained and informed me, and deeply fed into, literally fueling my already reclusive nature.  Seriously, who needs people when one has books?  Sound cold?  Have you met me?  Heard what I've survived?

I'm scarred and emotionally banged up big time.  Duh.  I'm overusing idiotic words and phrases, as I try and come to terms with 25 years of trauma mama existence. That I'm not in pull-ups is vaguely reassuring.

And now my beloved books?  I'm letting them go.

Digital media has transformed my life in huge ways, in my simplification, purification process I've slowly over the past several years donated hundreds of my books that I've accumulated.  The books I know I'll never re-read, why hoard them?  Others might wanna read them, and I have very, very little money invested in these treasures due to my propensity for yard sale shopping.

Sarah just let go of 20 boxes of books.  It's freeing.

I relish empty spaces, the less clutter, the less stuff will be flung, tossed, knocked around, and broken when there are children wanting to illustrate their inner anger.

I even now am eliminating more'n a few houseplants, those who've been root bound too long, throwing 'em in the compost pile, washing out the pots, knowing I'll eventually re-use them.

I'm now living with kids who are overall a pretty peaceful bunch, at least in comparison to the years of broken windows and fist-fights.

And on a sad note, Chuck and Yolie's sweet dog, Ella, had to be put down last night.  I think trauma survivors might be even more attached to their pets than neuro-typical owners in that the attachment is allowed to grow without any human expectations.  I know this has been so for me.

I plopped my happy butt down at church this morning and whispered to Sarah my abject frustration right now with a teenager who's careening down the wrong path, alienating everyone, pointedly being extremely rude and disrespectful to the only one who's ever willingly provided for him.

All he sees is a dumb white woman standing in the way of his fun.

Texting angrily on the phone I'm generously providing for him, all sorts of ridiculous irony zipping by like a fart in the wind, his darkened countenance glowering at all family members.

This'll be a kid who might just disappear one day, as several of my others have done over the years, Claudia's recently dealt with this, it's hurtful and disappointing, to say the least.

Folks who've only adopted one kid or a sibling group are stunned when this happens.  It's fairly common in the adoption world, I've come to accept it, whether I like it or not, it's not my choice to make.

I've had 20 something year olds not come home for a couple of night, just show up later to get their clothes and still not say the words, "I'm moving out."

So I struggle often with hopelessness, feelings of pointlessness, am I just a glorified unpaid babysitter?  I wanted to be the mom, but those words stick in the throats sometimes of traumatized kids.

Walking downstairs this morning in the darkness, flipping on lights and thinking 'bout my life.  Who would choose to do this?  What was I thinking?  Then the coffee kicked in and I felt better about things.

A sermon on hope this morning clarified my feelings.  Just because this all didn't turn out to meet my higher yet lowish expectations, just because much of this was very one sided and I received the awful brunt of hellish behaviors, well that doesn't mean I didn't do what I was supposed to do, and I can only control me.

I'd read with interest Claudia's post on us old-timers fading away, choosing not to mentor those going into adoption.  I gotta admit - I'm not gonna be a mentor.  I'm too burned out, and mentoring would re-ignite my intense trauma.  No can do.  Sorry folks.  I just can't.  My energy is needed for my children who still choose to have me in their lives plus my grandchildren.

Hours later I'd not hit publish, gone to watch the Braves game, distracted by something or another, not realizing until this morning.

Paying

"I wanna pay my own bills," I stressed to my highly irritated parents when I was just 17 years old, still in high school, but flush with money I'd earned at my first menial job, realizing that as a waitress, one could earn a ton of money if one worked hard.

While other women chatted at the break table, smoking cigarettes and talking about their dumb boyfriends, I offered to take their tables for them, an opportunity they jumped at.  I couldn't believe the laziness.  I took entire extra shifts for them so that they could go party.  Miss Nerd here wanted money, so dang choleric as to be a page illustration.  Hey, why fight it?  I embraced it at an early age.

Sarah, too, was bursting with independence in high school, working a job at Kinkos, had gone to Europe at age 16 on a school chaperoned trip, owned a car, and managed money beautifully, both of us graduating from high school before either of us turned 18.

This was how I thought all 17 year olds were.  It was my only frame of reference.

My Biggers, as Daniel'd immediately labeled them, Deysi, Saray, Marcela, Cristy, Gina and Yolie didn't have a role model that looked or acted like them at all.  They only had us - two hard-headed, undaunted, fiery, feisty, nurtured, stable women as their only examples. Sarah was just 14 back then when we first went to Honduras, but already showing signs of who she'd become.

The rest of my daughters though had The Biggers as role models, girls who'd been through the foster care system, had been adopted, had been traumatized, had been neglected, abused, or had issues, and I dumbly thought that my next dozen daughters would fare better, having had the plus factor involved of older sisters who'd made it.

It was not to be so.

Again I figured that they'd be able to extrapolate from what they saw, my Biggers going to college and graduating.  But now looking back, were they intimidated by the Biggers' many successes?  Or was it the major differences I saw regarding kids coming into care after the mid 90s, when a different version of  sad, drug-addled babies were born with crack running through their veins en utero combined with severe alcoholism?

Or will I never know?

I've just been thinking back about The Biggers who had no road map, nor did I then know anything about trauma issues and the neurological damage that'd been done.  As a whole though, they were teachable, but my sons were a bit tougher.

I had no clue as to the depths of one of their issues.  One grown son eventually snapping and growling at another, "You have a kid now, grow up," just as he'd immediately done both as a father and a husband, while the other one floundered.

I have more time to think now, to ruminate, to mull it over with Yolie, she with her Master's Degree in Social Work, experience and intelligence.  She's my guide and my translator.

Sarah, who managed to encounter three different black snakes yesterday on her property (how symbolic, right?), ran by my house to get some black beans for a side dish, and took a Garden Tour with me.  A Let's Watch the Gardens Grow moment that we've shared all her life. That she'd once agreed, even wanted to live close to me after all she too had endured as The Solitary Birth Child here, is something I treasure and am supremely grateful about, indeed she could've chosen to reject me after all that has happened as I tried to follow the will of God.

Who knows?  Yet I contemplate constantly, loving the literal alliteration I'm stumbling upon as I muse, full of myself once again. But all alliteration is literal, that's completely redundant.  Again, I'm tangled up in my own head, batting around words that I love, such a librarian.

Even with all his recent playground injuries, the world is Nando's amusement park, he valiantly played soccer yesterday, the opposing team knowing if they shut him down, put as many defenders on him as possible, the team's less likely to score, and dang if there wasn't a pile-up, my little Nando now with a mongo bruise on his knee...and you know I'm gonna draw an obvious comparison here to the real world...

Nah, I'm not, too obvious.

Ya Gotta Read Lisa A's Blog

Friday a week ago I was at the Braves game, this past Friday I watched CJ, my six year old grandson play baseball.  Equally as entertaining.  Scotty, Nando and Jack, however, went to fall in the swamp accidentally on purpose.

Three sports physcals this morning at 7 a.m., Nando's soccer pictures at 8:20, his game at nine, Scotty's game at 10:30, yard sales in between, left no time to blog this morning.

I caught one of my kids skipping school yesterday on Senior Skip Day, now grounded, another kid caught not being where he should've been, melting down in self-righteous anger at having his behavior corrected by me.

So predictable.

Knowing I cannot change, and apparently hardly affect this neural pathways blockage, it's nearly pointless to consequence, doing so only makes me feel as if I'm trying to parent those who just can't, don't, nor won't, learn anything.

For me though it all kinda boils down to trust, when I can't trust a word coming out of one's mouth, does it not affect the relationship?  The attachment?

Talking recently with another professional who described a person known to us who can not abide life without drama, as if he doesn't feel alive without chaos, the confusion defining him.  Otherwise life is boring.  Stability is uncomfortable.

I've had kids who like to fight, it gives them such a release, much like I get from hauling wood chips and being productive.  Slugging someone is their first go to choice.

Me gently showing them a better way just makes me look completely out of touch with their reality.

So instead of me irritating them by attempting to suggest changes, it's just better if I pour myself into those that respond well to correction and to praise.  I've slooooooowly learned I cannot force an issue with some, it's a physical, mental and emotional impossibility.  It just is.

And the majority of my children are very, very bonded and easy to parent.  I need to remember that.

And to all the other trauma mamas trying to hold their heads above water, I really wanna refer you to Lisa A's blog where she wrote, "During the day my mind was attempting to come up with a plan to help us.  Parenting trauma is not for sissies.  We know that but........as parents of our kids, we are cratering now.  We are needing help now.  We are trying to figure out how to put one foot in front of the other and carry on now.  Our spouses sometimes don't get it, family/friends don't get it, our kids pee and poop in the most creative places, rage, spit, jump out of moving vehicles, puke on us, perp on other kids, and a host of other behaviors.  Yes, I get that it's the emotions coming out but it sure is hard to deal with day in and day out.  Plus we have our PTSD to think about as well.


She has a plan, a good one, go read it please.

Common sense would tell you as much, but over the past decade researchers have unearthed a neurological explanation. One experiment after another has demonstrated that children who live in poverty often have higher-than-normal levels of stress hormones, which can actually warp the architecture of the brain in ways that make these children more vulnerable to anxiety and depression and more prone to poor decision-making, and thus more likely to remain poor and to raise kids who will themselves remain poor. Bringing up a child in the chaotic conditions of poverty must be something like building a skyscraper on quicksand. Instability begets instability begets instability.

Exactly. Bingo! Hello?

This is where all my children came from. This is what's sent me over the edge so many times, as I've watched them make terrible choices in spite of many other much more acceptable options.

This is why we refer to them as not being neuro-typical children.

This is why school is such a hassle, as are relationships, and future prospects.

Is this pronouncement the kiss of death? No, rather it is an explanation from which we can all start to change how we parent. The ways in which I brought Sarah up are not ways that'll work well in these cases.

If I'd disengaged with a normal brain-wired child it'd be mistakenly thought of as complicit agreement with their negative actions versus what it is in reality - a refusal to get into a pissing contest.

This article can be found here, I was reading it on my phone while waiting for an awards ceremony to start at the high school in which Allen was getting an award for his math class. He was battling me about it, severe anxiety making him not want to walk up on the stage, whining that it was his 'dumb kids math class' anyway.

He did walk and I did gush my support.

Leaving there, in the mile between the school and my house, we came up upon a car that had just smashed into a tree, dust still flying. In that split second I was unsure where the rest of my teenagers were, most had stayed at the school, several had ridden home with other teens. I pulled over and darted to an unrecognizable car, Sabrina with me, a card carrying CPR certified person. Martin and Chuy ready to help.

A totaled car, air bags deployed, the kid had on a seat belt, and was in right good shape, thank God. He'd veered off the road in a curve, my guess is that he might've been texting. He'd been in classes with Martin since 2nd grade.

I was pretty shook up, being a mama, likely more so than the kid who was pulled out carefully from the back of the car window.  A First Responder was there within a minute, for a rural area, the response times are impressive.  I left so as not to be in the way.

"What's this?" Jack barked at Nando, "Is our room a Wildlife Sanctuary?" Nando'd found a baby bird with a messed up wing he was nursing back to health, several lizards were running amuck, plus he'd been hanging out his window fascinated with a black snake snoozing in the sun. I don't mind that harmless snake, I wouldn't go cuddle with it, but it does eat field mice which I don't want inside the house.

I've always thought that resiliency and a high intelligence is/was what pulled some of my kids ahead of the pack, and maybe that is still the case. maybe their intelligence and inner strength literally prevented their brains from being mis-wired? Is that even possible? Maybe their over-riding sense of what should be, their logic protected them?

The article itself was more narrative and less informational, but it so vividly portrayed the people so much so that I could see several of my own grown children living just like that, the lack of planning or any well thought out intentions, these aspects that drive us stick-in-the-mud parents nuts. We plan, we budget, we choose carefully, always considering the consequences, and we're baffled when others do not do so.

Well Cindy, they can't. They just can't.

They must be parented differently. Dr. Mandy has long known this, has guided me differently over the years, for awhile I resisted comprehending that folks couldn't choose better. It just didn't make sense to me. I couldn't understand why folks would willingly crap up their lives when a better decision would have a better result.

I just didn't understand.

Teachers don't necessarily understand either, thus the high dropout rate, which isn't the teacher's fault, I'm not trying to say that, but it's the frustration from the children who just can't think properly.

I do believe that some new pathways can be built within the brain. I have to believe that. The alternative is way too depressing. My expectations are now so much different than 25 years ago when I began, even then with slightly lower expectations so as not to stress new children out. My expectations nowadays are minimal.

Figuring It Out

Tony again took this photo of The Posers, I mean Mayra and Sabrina.

Eating lunch yesterday with a longtime adoption worker, some 30+ years of experience, hard to surprise her about anything regarding behaviors, I can't begin to say anough good things about how her intellience has guided me clearly all these years, and I was struck by a statement, "We tell our new adoptive parents that we have no resources to help them," in regards to the murderous rages so many of us later face.

"There are no resources," she cleared up.

True, that.

There's no holding tank to allow for a cooling off period, no sanctions for the crazy with a K behaviors we see, there's no respite, which I'm still not convinced is a good idea anyway, at least not for my household, and there's certainly no bodyguards available for rent. I wouldn't have chosen Kevin Costner when there's men like The Rock that could've helped.

So what's an adoptive parent to do preceding, during, or after these frightening events?

Heck if I know. Seriously. I. Do. Not. Know. Neither does she. Nor does anyone.

But if your worker discourages you, after reading a case file and you've fallen in love with the kid on paper, please listen to your worker.

A kid described as 'obsessed with getting their own way,' sometimes translates into, 'will use force or weapons to fight all control battles.' Honestly, they bring machine guns and assault weapons to a knife fight.

I once stupidly thought that love would win out, reasoning would prevail, my own inner fortitude would be contagiously appealing to them, that these adorable children just needed a loving mama, only to discover I was kinda wrong. And apparently dumb as a doorknob.

I've been blessed with the best: the best adoption caseworker, the best juvenile court judge, the best DJJ, the best therapist/Psychologist/psychometrist and psychiatrist, the best county mental health services in the form of both Advantage and Pathways, the best deputies, the best sheriff, the best outside facilities and resources, the best grandparent/my parents and family supporting me, the best church, the best school system, the best friends, and on and on. Yet this has nearly done me in.

I AM the strongest woman I know, 25 years in the adoption arena, me getting up every single day no matter how tired/sad/angry/upset/heart broken, etc. It doesn't matter. No days off, get up and go. You chose this Cindy, go deal with it.

Which is why respite doesn't appeal to me, the issue would still be waiting on a resolution. Also I don't take off for an annual week alone to rejuvenate myself, re-entry would be brutal, (thank you Lisa A for that term). I'd even wager to say that I've chosen the best kids.

I read through every single home study with a fine tooth comb and brightly colored high-lighters, questioning my own caseworker and special ed teachers about each and every listed issue. What I didn't then fully understand is that the cute, un-labeled then four year old could grow up into his undetected diagnoses, and rage with vile, brutal hatred at me, or that teenage rebellion in traumatized children can include way too much violence and chaos, or that the misdirected anger is astonishingly dangerous. The attachment issues, not RAD, just the middle of the road you're-not-my-real-mother rage hurts everyone, both physically and emotionally.

The fall-out has been enormous, and my other children have all been affected. I remain buffaloed by so much, by the ones that do not break the cycle of poverty, indifference, apathy, lethargy, drug use, alcoholism, and everything else.  Claudia's frustration at their family's arrest record mirrors our own.

This post yesterday by a trauma mama venting sounded similar to my own outrage at times.  We're a buncha pissed of mothers who've tried very, very hard and have been constantly kicked in the teeth for our efforts, both by the children and, surprisingly enough, by CPS and/or other card-carrying members of The Blame Game Squad, feeding into our children's own misguided victim theory that won't help them get and hold jobs.

Some of my kids flat out stun me by their inordinate successes, incredible achievements for which I claim no credit, it's on them, they pulled themselves up by their Nike laces. I burst with pride though. Jesse, you blow me away this morning as I pray for your beautiful family. I love you so much it brings tears to my eyes.

As I work outside each day, or scrubbing down the inside, I think, think, think, later trying to digest it here, to spew it out, or to laud some of my shining examples, such as Cristy or Gina.

Daniel's Save The Date announcement was a UGA Game Day photo of the two young adults on a magnet now adorning my fridge. I love it. If Daniel still lived with me, I'd beg him to build me this, because I know he could do so.

This post is much like my other yapping, as I really do remain quite astonished by what we've endured here. So unexpectedly- in that my hands on supervision can be suffocatingly constant. Large and in charge, I'm the boss folks, yet the backlash towards me, or their teachers, sometimes their youth pastors, and/or other helpful folks is much like a dog biting the hand that feeds it.

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 I just had a 15 year old have a meltdown, crying fit over being bus left. I ignorantly attempted to explain time management principles for the billionith time only to have him scream louder that this was all my fault. The baby of a patently oppositionally defiant sibling group, grossly unteachable, quite mean, and very stubborn at all times. This is a battle I can not win. They have too much at stake emotionally. I've finally learned to back down, to disengage. If I maintain my very logical stance, it'll only ignite their inner fury, likely resulting in me having to call a deputy to restore order and to press charges on property destruction.

These are not neuro-typical children and can not be treated as such. A very difficult lesson for me to finally learn. I remain rather frustrated because I already know how this turns out for adult human beings. I remain committed. I do love them.

I've been his mom since he was a bedwetting, emotionally demanding toddler. Not much has changed since then, although he finally quit the wetting at about age 8, much sooner than a lot of other traumatized children. I've had 15 year old bed wetters. Not a pretty sight, but something that must be dealt with.

Thank God for therapy. I've certainly needed it, and I've greatly benefitted from Dr. Mandy's explanations, guidance, suggestions, and brilliance.  Some of my kids have listened to her also.

And my severely oppositional fit thrower? When I dropped him off at the high school he actually said, "Thanks, Mom, love you," after a one-sided, door slamming, loud argument that made absolutely no sense, and would've rivaled that of any other two year old that'd lost their lolloipop.

"You're welcome," I sighed, trying to find any available oxygen left untarnished there in my van. "I love you too." He got out grinning and bopped in the doors to find another adult to aggravate.  This principle's cell phone has my cell phone number in it...just in case.

I'll end this post with a Jesse and Isaiah picture.