Transference, Questions, Poverty and Its Consequences

This cabbage, undamaged within the bug-chewed outer leaves, will be my lunch today and has nothing to do with this post, other than maybe symbolically representing the rest of this post.  As in it's what's on the inside that matters, right?

I found that even with all this frustrated spewing I do, lengthy posts, long diatribes, still I had ninety something unpublished drafts.  Posts I thought the better of publishing.  I don't even dare re-read them for fear of spiking my own blood pressure.  I'll just delete them unread.  I've been so scared, so scarred, so damaged by what's been endured here for so long.

You think I'm drumming up support for my plight, or looking for sympathy?  What good would that do me?  I'm venting.  I'm bolstered by y'all's commiseration as our lives are so similar in the adoption of older children  Go back and read the 4,000+ pages and understand I've not even begun to describe what's happened here.

A former caseworker, the one who'd supervised my adoption of a sibling group of five children, four of which violently bombed out of living their entire teenage years here with us, well he's working on his PhD, and sent me a list of interesting questions to which he needs input.

"I know you'll probably say no," he stated, which was certainly my initial response, as I'm so traumatized, but I read further and was intrigued with the tact he's taking, especially regarding the lack, no the dearth, of post-adoption resources where so many parents find themselves astonished to be facing such danger, destruction, and aggression.

I'm in, I do have something to say.

4. Emphasize funding for post-adoption services. No money is dedicated to postadoption services while significant funds are set aside for other programs, such as independent living for youth with a goal of APPLA. Children who have been adopted from foster care outnumber those in independent living programs by 10 to 1. Funding for post-adoption services should be increased so that it is at least equal to that dedicated to supporting independent living. As use of APPLA is reduced and independent living services are less urgently needed, Congress should reallocate the funds currently used for independent living to post-adoption services.

I'm not in any mood to encourage adoptions anymore.  I'm too shocked, stunned and flabbergasted from the trauma.

Yet I mourn for all the great kids in the foster care system that simply need a parent.

Until adoptive parents are treated like human beings, I won't encourage anyone anymore to walk into the line of fire.  I can't begin to describe how badly you'll be treated, not only be raging traumatized children, but also by the professionals who should be helping you survive.

This man, Tom, was extremely helpful to me back then, he was very interesting and full of knowledge.  It's not a stretch to refer to him as brilliant.  I've been incredibly blessed by the caseworkers who've helped me along the way in the adoption process both here and in Texas.  I've picked their brains dry in my attempts to learn all that there is to be learned.

Yet when I've sought outside help for family safety, or for children who severely and desperately need psychiatric help?  Oh my goodness.  I've often been treated like I was the problem.  If I parented differently then maybe they wouldn't be schizophrenic, ODD or bipolar?  Diagnoses that arrived here with them before they ever met me?  Hello?

"I had a razor and I was gonna cut 'em," my very beautiful 15 year old told me on the phone yesterday from her 10-13 psychiatric placement.

Always logical I dumbly responded, "Where in the world did you even get a razor?"

"The unlocked office," she stated flatly, "But I didn't jump out any window, the staff is just dramatic."

There was no point in me pointing out the fallacy of this logic.  Her reality is not anyone else's reality. I just sighed to myself and repeated for the millionth time, "You need to understand that this behavior can get you locked up," which isn't always the right thing to say, as Dr. Mandy has reminded me that all a kid hears is, "You're gonna get locked up," unable to differentiate, or to comprehend that assaults are illegal offenses that get one arrested.  They always feel deeply justified in hurting someone.  This lovely girl will verbalize that she hears voices telling her to do this or that.

Indeed the police had been called, she'd been put into maybe her fifth 10-13 psychiatric placement in two year's time.

This was not the post I'd come downstairs to write.  I had other thoughts banging around within my skull this morning such as Sarah's exasperation yesterday to learn that Tiger's Milk bars number one ingredient is high-fructose corn sugar, plus I'd just read this fascinating expose on organic fig newtons.  Unreal.

I'd listened to a podcast on transference, on my goodness,  As classically defined by Sigmund Freud it is a form of projection. The client redirects her feelings about some significant person in her past from that person onto the therapist. Thus for example if the client feels anger towards one of her parents the client pretends the therapist is that parent then starts getting angry at the therapist instead. This process occurs unconsciously and one of the goals of psychoanalysis is to articulate it in order to attempt to resolve the conflict between the client and the person towards whom the emotion initially was felt. 


Traumatized children's feelings toward birth parents are spewed out upon the hapless adoptive parent.  Duh, we are all text book cases.

I was also irked at a poverty report, it's what I've been saying pretty much in regard to women who repeatedly get knocked up by various men.  Ladies?  Birth control, if not some restraint?  Who sleeps with unemployed felons, with lounge lizards, and other males who won't legally commit to raising the children?  Who thinks that's OK?

I don't know what CPS can, or will, do with the flood of meth babies needing adoptive homes.  This once was an issue I'd be standing there willing to help by providing a loving, stable home, yet nowadays, 25 years later, I'm too bruised, battered and damaged by, I dunno, everything to help.

Instead, I think I'll post Tom's list of issues, if anyone is interested in corresponding with him, with helping, let me know.  He's hunting for input and it is my belief that policies must change.  The caseworkers, the ones on the front, are overwhelmed by the numbers of kids they are dealing with, here in Georgia some caseworkers are covering several counties.  How is that even physically possible?

From the poverty report: "Front-line services for families are everywhere under strain as austerity measures increase the numbers in need while depleting the services available," it says. "It's also clear that the worst is yet to come."


From Tom's PhD Program:

 I know this sounds odd. FYI, below are the main barriers identified by the working group:

- financial disincentives for creating interstate adoptions;
- lack of standardized information about families seeking to adopt and about children waiting to be adopted;
- insufficient post-adoption support compared to support for youth aging out; and
- absence of a robust model for creating adoptions, including effective recruitment of adoptive families; appropriate caseloads, training, and supervision for workers; and significant youth involvement.

...and these are the group's recommendations:

1. Reward both sending and receiving states for creating interstate adoptions. In the current system, the state that sends the child to be adopted in another state enjoys a financial gain while the state that receives the child experiences a financial loss. Congress should change incentives so that both states are rewarded when a child is adopted across state lines.

2. Establish national standards for home studies and for descriptions of waiting children. Nationwide use of a standard home study, such as the Structured Analysis Family Evaluation (SAFE), will raise the average quality of home studies. A nationwide standard is also essential for increasing interstate adoptions, since mistrust of data from other jurisdictions is a barrier to adoption. Similarly, national standards for describing and disclosing each waiting child’s experiences and needs are critical, both for the process of matching children and parents and for preparing parents to meet the child’s needs. Congress should instruct the Department of Health and Human Services to establish these standards.

3. Eliminate long-term foster care as a goal. Children with a goal of Another Planned Permanent Living Arrangement (APPLA) exit foster care into “living situations” but have no family. “No family” should never be the plan for a child. Congress should create incentives for states to replicate existing effective initiatives for reducing use of APPLA.

4. Emphasize funding for post-adoption services. No money is dedicated to postadoption services while significant funds are set aside for other programs, such as independent living for youth with a goal of APPLA. Children who have been adopted from foster care outnumber those in independent living programs by 10 to 1. Funding for post-adoption services should be increased so that it is at least equal to that dedicated to supporting independent living. As use of APPLA is reduced and independent living services are less urgently needed, Congress should reallocate the funds currently used for independent living to post-adoption services.

5. Encourage development of a robust, comprehensive practice model of adoptions from foster care. Congress should support the development and use of a model that enhances the primary emphasis on safety with a more nuanced strategy for permanence. An effective model will feature child-specific recruitment, clearly defined roles and responsibilities for workers and supervisors, and youth involvement in collaborative permanency planning. Such a model will facilitate training of
frontline social workers and supervisors and will make it possible to develop measures of accountability for outcomes.

Wild and Wistful, Wounded and Wary

I miss my niece, Lauren.  I won't see her again until Daniel's wedding.

I'd not taken enough books with me to the beach so I slowly savored Wild by Cheryl Strayed who'd walked the Pacific Coast Trail alone. Oh girlfriend, there's a part of my own Bucket List.

Now back home after a superbly blissful week at Edisto Island, and decidedly not alone, I've washed a mountain of dirty laundry, run dumb errands, and have not gotten around to my garden which produces weeds by the bucket full due to the rich soil composition in a matter of seconds, and now I'm looking at my invisible mental list of chores.

I'm hitting the seven year mark on blogging, thank you again Claudia, for showing me how to do so, as processing my conflicting feelings for so long has been greatly beneficial to me.

Like any other traumatized person, now that my family is safe and fairly normal, I struggle with my own inner dread that it just can't last, that all good things come to an end - which is how all my children felt upon being adopted - yet in Biblical philosophy,  I know I'm wrong for that, as we've not been given a spirit of fear.

I know it's my own severe trauma talking.

Phone calls from grown kids who are dealing with the natural consequences of behaviors I'd long tried to help them eliminate, knowing it'd only cause massively huge problems for them.  "Y'all,"  I'll say all day long, "I can't fix this," in reference to the pickles they find themselves in due to very poor choices.

I offer suggestions, options, and thoughts that often are soundly rejected as they require what they consider to be too much work.  I don't serve up condemnation, I aim for hope to be infused within them, I express my love and compassion, but they must take the necessary and proper steps to steer their life on a course that'll only bless them.

Well, life requires work.  Work can be tedious and boring.  I get that, but it's still gotta get done.

Life isn't an MTV video, yet that's what the media portrays to all of us.  We all think everyone else is having a blast while we alone labor under difficult conditions.  I fight envy in regards to women who get to lunch, or whatever they do, not constantly fretting about money, physical assaults and uber ridiculous drama...but I don't know what they're dealing with and it's ridiculously presumptuous of me to ignorantly think there are no challenges for them.  Get real Cindy.

I'm just gonna go out to weed and to think.  Over think is what I do.  And remain grateful for the lack of drama my household is facing right now.

I'm actually fighting tears because my baby brother Jimbo just left to go home to Tallahassee and I miss him.  Deep sigh.

Again, I thank you all for seven years of readership commiseration and understanding.  Y'all's emails, texts, comments and support has been so awesome and I'm very grateful.

Here's to the next seven years of hopefully yawn inducing boredom as my life will be all about grandbabies, weeding and reading.  Yeah boy, that's my goal.  Boring to most folks maybe, but a deep desire and relief for me as I've been neck deep for too long in way too much trauma.

Once a librarian, always a librarian, this book was really, really good.  While other females might dream about a princess life, the siren call for me is in long walks, isolation within the wildlife realm, and inner peace and emotional healing.  I've carried within for too long too much abject fear, dread, intense humiliation, much resentment, and deep, but invisible, wounds to my soul.  How's that for dramatic?  But it's right true.

Over-Medicating Toddlers

Yay!  Property values went down and thus my net worth, but what do I care?  I'm not going anywhere and I'll have a lower tax bill.

Martin's Summer Session is overflowing, they put him in the 12:30- 4:30 p.m. class with no afternoon bus route and it's all the way up the highway at the other high school, plus costs money.

Hey, what price education?  I know I'm gonna have to pay for some online courses to get him successfully through high school by age 19 1/2.  I held him back in first grade, he desperately needed it.  Developmentally delayed then, physically and emotionally scarred from what he'd been through back in Texas, scared to pieces, out of his three year old mind when he arrived here due to confusion, chaos, severe neglect, and being improperly medicated, plus he had a super challenging sib group accompanying him.

He didn't need any medications, his foster mom had put 'em all on clonedine because she said they were hyper.

They were toddlers for crying out loud, they were naturally rambunctious.

"If we don't take it, we'll have a heart attack," his then seven year old sister screamed in alarm when I told them they didn't need it.  We ran to a psychiatrist and a psychologist to get help, to ensure the kids they could stop taking meds.

The baby of the bunch, now 16, is my resident photographer.

Feeding The Sky Rats

I've never gallivanted off without my kids hardly, knowing reentry would be impossibly difficult, yesterday as I awoke them all, their own reentry - leaving a beach house and packing up to return to our own home - was extraordinarily challenging.

Two older sons were unbelievably rude and ill-tempered about it, while in his usual contrast, the poster child for the very bonded, CW helped Chuck load up our supply trailer properly.  Sabrina helped a lot while some sullen ones went straight to the van to glower back at us.

I get that vacations are confusing, conflicting even, but it's been a lot of years of stability that I've provided, certainly folks can start to work through their issues now before they are unleashed into the real world?  Especially now that we have the added benefit of being safe within our family?  Get it together young'uns.

How nice is safe?  I have no words, yet I also will not let down my hyper vigilant guard.  My brains aren't pasted on, they're fully functioning.

Traumatized children do not do well with any sort of changes.  Yet I can't have them grow up and not have vacations.  I feel rejuvenated, blessed by my time on the ocean, while some of them struggle with all sorts of conflicting feelings.

At home they were just as unreasonable, leaving Tabby and I to unload everything.  I disengaged big time, plowed through the work, ignored the simmering tensions, knowing it was best to not feed into it.

My dogs were besides themselves with delight, jumping into our arms, whimpering hysterically as if their own abandonment issues surpassed those of my children.

Good golly.

Chuck and Yolie got to go get their two new puppies they'd claimed last week, a lab/mastiff mix of warm, sweet puppy love.  Two siblings from the same litter of course, already neutered, wormed and having their shots.

Summer School starts this morning for Martin - welcome back to reality, his is a course recovery for only a couple of weeks, and Sabrina has cheer leading conditioning all summer long, plus her job at Captain D's.

Jim had made reservations for he and Grandma at the Francis Marion Hotel in Charleston as they attend the Spoleto Festival.  He'd chosen that one specifically, knowing Grandma like the grand old, history-laden accommodations, not knowing that Grandma and Grandpa had honeymooned there 60 years ago, delighting Grandma at the news, lemme tell ya.

Sarah and Preston, on their own honeymoon a dozen years ago, had honeymooned on a South Carolina beach island, Folly Beach, but had dined at a particular Charleston restaurant that they sent Jim and Grandma to eat at yesterday.

Edisto is barely a five hour trip from our dirt road to the beach house.  The kids snored as I drove, we didn't stop once, we'd packed sandwiches and drinks, everyone listening to their Ipods, an easy 250 miles back to the real world as we know it.

Leaving Home Rudely

Claudia wrote an interesting post today about how badly most of our children tend to leave the nest, often before the legal age of 18.

I've gone about my chores all morning thinking about her kids.

My kids followed very similar patterns, it once broke my heart with increasing regularity...until I quit crying, and noticed, with no little relief, how much I did not miss the palpating tension and hovering, threateing violence that also accompanied them.

Too often they'd pick a fight, it took me a long, long time to comprehend this pattern, as it all started innocuously enough with a statement from me such as, "Please take your bookbag to your room," a long standing rule that prevents a bookbag pile-up mountain at the door.

They'd ignore me, or snarl rudely, or pick it up and hit someone, a complete no no in our home, knowing full well that I'd quietly have to correct that behavior.

That'd be it.

They'd storm out, telling themselves that I was a shrew, a witch, a bitch, mean, ugly, hateful, whatever.

Yes, it hurt my feelings.  Duh.  As I knew the opposite was true, that I'd lovingly tended to them in spite of all odds.  Imagine financially sacrificing yourself for years only to be physically, emotionally attacked?

To take folks on vacation only to have them scream at you that they hated it all.

Opposite day all the time.  All. The. Time.

Oppositionally defiant constantly.  It's emotionally wearing.

It's the constant ugliness that's been hurled at me, me being the convenient, all forgiving target for their rage that primarily was intended for their original caretakers who'd abandoned them.  They lash out at the ones who don't leave.

I end up cowering both physically and emotionally, afraid to reach out and thus provoke another barrage of insults, ugliness, threats, and danger.

It's just the way it is, but it is what's driven me into seclusion, to be reclusive, a hermit.

Those who've treated me well, and there's been a bunch of them, well I'm deeply, deeply appreciative of their love.

Beach Day Seven

Who in their right mind beach walks with JoJo?

Mr. Unbridled Mouth kept up a yelling, running commentary the entire stroll while I, in vain, tried to enjoy Tropical Storm Beryl's impressive wind, rip tides, high waves and dark cloud bands.

"Hey!" JoJo screamed, "That kid's adopted!" Pointing to an Asian child in a white family.

"Who adopts just one kid?" he yelled even louder in outrage.

Before I could answer, "Obviously someone smarter than me," he bellowed, "Hey, what about his brothers?" and then went into a spiel about horseshoe crabs and the undertow, never ever waiting for an answer to any of his daily million question barrage.

That's just JoJo.

Later he remembered his original sibling adoption thought and reminded me that he'd have died without Allen by his side, his Emotional Twin.

Lauren left this morning for her ten hour return trip to the DC area, leaving a hole here in our midst as it had been wonderful being with her.  Grandma's going up there next week for their annual Race For The Cure event in Ellen's name.  I won't get to see Lauren again until Daniel's wedding.

I stood at Ocean View, where the Chesapeake Bay meets the Atlantic Ocean some 50 years ago with my dad on a bridge looking down at flooded homes after a hurricane.  Watching this Tropical Storm blowing in is fascinating.  It's not going to hit here, it's projected to make landfall on the Georgia-Florida border but its outer bands are lashing the sea here.  We only got a little rain in the morning then the sun shone brightly but it was inadvisable to get in the water what with a strong undertow issue.  The wind gusts nearly knocking us all down.

Well it's been fun, loads of fun these past seven days, with almost zero behavior issues, but it's back to the real world now, my gardens and our life.

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

And just like that it's already the next day and we're back home safe and sound.

I got babied.  Honestly.  Sarah, Jim, Yolie, Chuck, Lauren and Grandma tended to me bigtime.  I was a slug.

I'd gone to bed at ten last night, leaving Sarah up, who came to my room minutes after I was falling asleep, "Allen might need stitches," she calmly told me.

Because he's Allen and he'd been running and jumping, he landed hard on a rock and our one-handed Preston already had him cleaned up and bandaged before I could formulate a decent question.  One-handed.  I can't tend to medical crap with both hands.  

There's just something about palm trees framing every view that brings about the best in me.  Lauren and Sarah here, both so much like my sister, Ellen.

"Girl, you look like you're on a mission," the lady whose plants I'm crazy about proclaimed yesterday, now I have three needle palms to plant at home, one web page states they need 5 square feet, another says ten, which is what I'll go with as my good soil promotes astronomical growth.  I've been planting them in my head now for several days, finally selecting a suitable permaculture bed corner where all three will make an Edisto statement to me, the island also described as Edis-slow, such is the pace here.

"She needs to man up," CW said in disgust, coming in for supper, not seeing any irony at all in his statement, insinuating she must've been too girlish, bo-ring.  She's as pretty as ever, very long blonde hair.

Apparently both were shy after an ensuing school year, by late evening all was well on his summer friend romance part.  "Be home by ten," I bellowed after him, and he was obediently complaint, maybe the sweetest 16 year old son a mom could ever ask for in today's world. I know I'm blessed by his presence in my life.

It's The Good Food Revolution that I'm reading by Will Allen, not whatever title I mangled yesterday.  A real page turner, but I'm almost finished reading it, savoring slowly, treasuring the last 40 pages, what a nerd I am, not wanting the book to end.

"Carry your laptop about 100 yards past this house and you'll pick up wi-fi," Tony told me.  I suppose I could do so to publish, but a serious case of languidity has overtaken me.  I've only watched half of one Braves game all week.  I do check the scores on my phone, they've had a tough week.  Maybe they do need me hollering at the umps?

An island somnolence, there are no gardens demanding my attention, no immediate housecleaning time sucking chores, just cooking and some clean up, walking on the beach, hanging with family, and lolling around happily.

I dove into the waves gleefully, the sub-tropical storm Beryl churning off the coast, kicking up the surf correspondingly, as we jumped the immensely impressive Atlantic Ocean waves, coming back down it'd still be over our heads as the waves kept rolling in incessantly.  Making short jokes about Yolie who was truly over her head but a very strong swimmer.

"Yay!  Mom's in the water," the Bubbas yelled, clambering in after me, yelling unsolicited advice regarding which waves to dive through versus jumping over headfirst, as if I'm a frail idiot unsure of swim tactics?  Guys, I've been in the water for almost 60 years, I can do this.

It's been years since I wasn't afraid that as soon as I went underwater there wouldn't be a fistfight on shore between my violent and overly aggressive sons, or a temper dysregulation event, a major rage in public.  My hyper-vigilance need is ceasing somewhat, I'm allowing for me to have more fun, seriously it's the beach, why shouldn't I be allowed to swim?  

I love, love, love the ocean, am crazy with a Capital K about Edisto Island, and will probably wanna tear up a bit when I leave.  When my kids grow up?  Oh honey, I'll be here way more than just one week a year.  There's a state park here, I'll camp in my truck with a pile of books, two of my dogs, (Shatter and Riley) and a sack of groceries.

Grandma, Lauren, Sabrina, and Tony are headed out to a tiny Methodist church on the island for Sunday services, I'd go too if I could find a rowdy, raucous Church of God, or even an Assemblies of God, or a non-denominational one with great praise and worship music, instead I'll fart around here enjoying my last day on the beach that I so obviously am infatuated with.  Leaving the 'don't end a sentence with a preposition' obvious because Sarah's been making fun of me all morning since I type with two fingers and move my lips while doing so.  Hey, girl, I never took typing lessons, not wanting to grow up and be a secretary, oblivious to Steve Jobs soon being born with great plans in that supreme mind of his. Oh my, how he changed so many lives with his products.

She's sitting right here and knows I'm talking about her since she can read both facial expressions and lips, unlike my other children who stumble over social cues, feelings, and any sort of empathetic response.

Lord Have Mercy, I love 'em all.

Beach Day Five

Chuck and Yolie have hilariously, laboriously, been on The Great Crab Hunt, bringing home several at a time, taking the Bubbas with them, exploring this gorgeous island while Sarah and Preston have allowed Tabby and Nando to swim with Ray and Hazel, while this ole gal, responsible-less, has been walking the beach, reading, and relaxing.  It's been wonderful.  Yesterday they crabbed fairly near an alligator on the marsh side of the island.  CW caught an oyster toadfish, one of the ugliest fish in existence, but a fun, learning experience for my boy.

I've finished three books so far, now on my hero, Will Allen's Growing Food book, a transplanted Southerner who's growing 40 tons of food annually on three acres in Milwaukee, bringing organic produce to the poor neighborhoods and teaching folks how to do the same.  Having control of one's food production is infinitely empowering.  I've seen him in documentaries and food films, read of him in various periodicals, what a calling he has.

The first night we were here Grandma's Dancing With The Stars season finale was interrupted by tornado warnings farther up the coast, the TV weatherman zeroing in on the affected streets and, I kid you not, one was Hellhole Road.  "666 Hellhole Road?' my niece wondered aloud as I cackled alongside her, thinking my own dirt road might've been misnamed as, Lord Have Mercy, have we had some incidents there, or what, over the years.

Now, living with only 12 fairly easy-going teenagers, I just don't know what to do with myself.  I'm still automatically, or spastically, twitching in response to loud noises, jumping up outta my seat way too often, now just trying to breathe in unison with the ocean's waves, clearing my mind from decades of super severe stress.  It's tough to battle back from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Indeed, 30 year old Sergi'd called me at 8:30 this morning, my first thought was, "Uh-oh," as I knew it was 6:30 his time on a Saturday morning, but ever industriously, as he's always done, he has two jobs and was calling to chat on his way to the other one.  "Son, you know I'm proud of you," I stressed, knowing he was beaming.

CW's summer Edisto girlfriend arrives today, she lives 90 miles from our home, yet he drives 250 miles to get here to see her.  Go figure.  I'm happy if he's happy.

The Fish Fry is $10 a plate, there are 24 of us here.  No, thank you.  We've all taken turns cooking and eating like kings so we're on to Plan B instead of the fish fry today. A big ole, who cares?  Going with the flow.

Preston's broken hand bone was set, but he was left in a soft cast that he can remove so he can swim, the orthopedic doctors wanting him to have a range of motion.  He carried Hazel out to battle the waves, his right hand swollen and resembling a club hand.  He is in pain, yet stays in the water sunup to sundown.

Michael'd called yesterday, giving me the list of youth group activities for the summer as I'd texted him a question, trying to plan out the month of June for my young'uns, a bunch of fun stuff ahead, even two very cool weekends for me.

Nando came running up to the porch last night yelling in happiness that he'd found a baby possum.  Sho' nuff he had.  The cutest thing I'd ever seen at the bottom of the outside steps, not at all afraid of 16 loud and excited kids hanging around pointing, oohing and ahhing..

I suggested there was liable to be a bunch more from this litter until Sarah pointed out that large well-fed king snake might've been lurking around here for a reason...

Beach Day Four

We absolutely have the entire beach to ourselves, South Carolina schools are still in session, the ocean is all ours. Jim and Preston brought some heavy duty metal shovels, and the kids have dug their school year frustration out properly.  South carolina DNR rules require filling in all holes, turning off porch lights so as not to disturb sea turtles laying eggs.  How cool is that?

I'm entranced with the vegetation, palm trees abound, palmettos and bouganvillea everywhere.  I can wander for miles just loving everything I lay my eyes upon, I'm happy as a pig in a poke, my teenagers are behaving beautifully.  Tabby and Nando are beach busy all day with Ray, Hazel, CJ and Mae.

There are 24 of us here, at least half are rather reclusive folks, which makes the togetherness all the more ironic, but there's certainly room to escape all the humans, via porches, decks, sand, fishing piers, rooms, and long walks,

Chuck keeps setting out crab pots, books are being passed around, Grandma laughed all the way through The Sweet Potato Queen's story yesterday, now it's Sarah's turn, then Yolie's, and we'll certainly pass it to the Biggers at home.  They'll all love it.  Certainly Hispanic they are, but also deeply Southern.

I'm reading The Man Who Quit Money.  Dee'd sent me an article about it and I'd been immediately hooked.

Preston broke his hand the first night he was here.  Dang, his right hand, his work hand, his truck stick shift hand since the other hand's usually holding a coffee mug.  I never heard a thing, he drove himself up to Charleston's emergency room, it's set now and in a soft cast.  Stupid stuck window did him in.  I guess my sons can cast his fishing pole out, help him reel it in?  Preston's tough as nails, I saw him limp off to work once the second day after knee surgery.  He's originally from coastal Georgia, loves the seaside, a broken hand won't slow him down here.

My friend, Susan, my dear friend and mentor, Lisa R's sister, seriously needs everyone's prayers.  She lost her husband sometime back, sweet Ed who'd hired and mentored all of my Biggers, Susan's father died within the last year, and now her lovely daughter, Melissa, will be undergoing surgery next week for a malignant abdominal mass.  We're praying for a complete miracle, for total healing.  Melissa has two young kids and a husband who need her.  She's hardly Sarah's age.  I'm putting this here so Big Joe, Jesse, Sergi, Deysi, Saray, Gina and Marcela will all join me in praying for her, they all know and adore this entire family, the rest of my kids all know the extended family as Melissa's Uncle Tracy has long been a pastor, friend, and mentor of ours.

I still laugh at thinking 'bout Ed telling Jesse, "I didn't think you'd ever amount to anything," as Ed dealt with my very challenging teenage boys back then, none of them were easy, or so I thought until I met my later sons, who made the first batch of sons seem nearly on a level with choir boys in comparison.  My first three sons loved Ed and were devastated at his sudden death.  They also love his wife and daughter, Melissa.  Ed lived long enough to see Jesse become a huge success story.

My email comes through my phone, internet unnecessary, thank you 3G, yet I have 4g LTE envy, and my Pastor Terry's Care Ministry prayer requests have been many.  So housebound usually, prayer is all I have for folks, but prayer is all folks need.

Lauren's other grandparents sent a ton of popsicle money for my children, something my budget doesn't exactly allow for, they've been in Hog Heaven about this, while also grappling with the fact that Lauren has grandparents they don't know.  "These are Kevin's parents," I uselessly tried to explain, they think my favorite brother-in-law is too old to even have a mom and a dad.  I'm also praying for Mr. Billy Ellis, Kevin's dad, as he battles the same Pulmonary Fibrosis diagnosis that my own dad fought against.

Barbara, and her husband and grandchildren are also coming to visit the following weekend in June.  I've been besties with Barbara since 1968.  Nineteen sixty eight.  44 years of friendship, we'd met when I'd just turned 14 years old, a month before she did.  She lives in Lousiana now and we used to meet in Pensacola, Florida where my Miriam now lives, but we'd bring our kids and camp at Fort Pickens together.  I'm not far from being able to do that again in the near future.  44 years have flown by, lemme tell ya.  

And here at this beach that I adore?  Big meals, fun days.  Last night was my turn to cook, not an easy feat for black bean tostadoes without my heavy, very large cast iron black skillet, instead I had three frying pans going at the same time in place of my one beloved skillet.  I fried up 135 corn tortillas.  Tonight Jim and Grandma are cooking.  Yolie'd made about a hundred pancakes yesterday morning for everyone. There's a fire station fish fry we're thinking of attending tomorrow. This house, well worn and comfortable, has two stoves, an electric one and a gas range, and the prettiest fridge I've ever seen, mongo side by side stainless steel.

Lauren's been entertaining my teenagers.  "You are a FUN youth pastor," Scotty blurted, over-excited and super amped up.

"I don't act this crazy with my youth group, only with my cousins," she'd seriously explained to the one who couldn't picture her not being so much fun.  "I'm an adult there."

Silence from my teens as they tried to digest and comprehend her other side of life.

Chuck and Yolie haven't vacationed with me since that year on Pawley's Island when I had 17 kids under age 11.  I'd made them all wear their life jackets at all times even though they could swim, I was just over protective.  Ocean dangers were literally the least of my problems though as I'd had some seriously mentally ill children with severe diagnoses and horrendous behaviors I'd been trying to manage.  Looking back?  That I'd survived emotionally and physically just blows me away and makes me appreciate every single minute now with just regular behavior disorders.  So manageable, just annoying.

Beach Day Three's Cookie Revelation

Cyclothymic Disorder doesn't take a vacation, nor does Oppositional Defiant Disorder, nor really does any other issue, even those as seemingly innocuous as the massive insecurity and rare bouts of sadness.  There may be moments of clarity and even jubilation, but the underlying issues are always hovering, fixing to explode without any warning.

I grew very weary yesterday of way too many behavior redirections and corrections, but caught myself from giving in to exasperation, just being very relieved instead that all these negative behaviors are only annoying and not at all dangerous, nor violent.

The texts I receive from home are hilarious in their lack of urgency, or in the fact that there's nothing I can do about an adult son needing me to drive him somewhere at the spur of the moment.  There are other grown children in the vicinity that can be called. 

"Ooooh," he said, "You used the D word in your blog the other day."

This from a grown son who cusses every other word routinely.  If I remember correctly it was me quoting Big Joe regarding this one who was then surprised at the use of the word.

My niece, Lauren, now a youth pastor, or leader as she prefers to be called, had all of my Bubbas in a rousing game of something until four o'clock this morning, running through the house with pretend guns, it's apparently similar to the Shoot Out game they play at home, hiding in the meadow and running through the woods.

My phone has the 3G connection, allowing me to look online, but I'm typing on my laptop in Text Editor, I'd tried yesterday to pick up wi-fi to publish at a cafe, but to no avail.  I didn't feel like sitting there, I didn't even go inside, I was attempting from the parking lot. Maybe I'll make more of a genuine effort today, maybe not.

I've settled on three one gallon needle palms to take home to plant, from the same lady as last year, and I just can't wait, but duh, don't wanna go home yet, even to plant anything.

I do miss my silly dogs though, Marcela's tending to them today.

I'd picked up the most hilarious book at a yard sale, The Sweet Potato Queen's Big Ass Cookbook and Financial Planner that had me guffawing out loud all afternoon as I lolled about reading - reading the good parts aloud.  My mom has always made what she called Top Of The Stove Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies.  She's been uncovered though.  In this very funny Sweet Potato Queen Cookbook I learned their real name that my own mom had tried to hide from me for almost 58 years, knowing full well an immature farty brat like me needed no other amount of ammo.

Wait for it.

The real name is Catshit Cookies.

I've found it to be unbelievably amusing...and oh so descriptive.  Have you ever seen these little buggers?  A most apt description.

Lauren made brownies last night in a transparent attempt to dissuade me from hollering for Catshit Cookies, as I'd been the one to eat the last of the batch.  The Sweet Potato Queens make shockingly sweet concoctions saying "serves one."  Or eat until you are full...or sick, but the best line was in regards to Krispy Kreme doughnuts where they described a serving as "however many as are in the box."  Yeah boy!  My kind of ladies.

But now I've accidentally used three different cuss words in a week, as quotes certainly, but still visibly evident.

Yolie's caught the only fish so far, such a tiny one that they cut it up and used it for bait.  Allen caught a sting ray. Chuck is now claiming they're gonna fish all day and all night until they catch something worth keeping.

And seriously?  Who finds snakes at the beach?  Bodies do.  There's a king snake with yellow bands, a very large one in the sea grasses, palms and palmettos between the house and the beach.  Three of my teenagers have seen it three times each.  This small island teems with wildlife, Martin quietly watched a raccoon last night.

I love it here, just love it.

Beach Day Two

I do miss the Internet.  One might think when one's paying the big bucks for an old beach house, which is my favorite kind of beach house, well-worn, grand, and inviting, I'd wager this is one of the original ones on the beach, but having the Internet nowadays is nearly a necessity.  I'm reading news on my phone, thank you Verizon and Apple, seeing the radar showing rain at my house back there for two nights straight.  My dogs hate summer storms, likely they've panicked there without humans.

Sitting on a beach chair, watching my kids cavort, I heard the ding ding of an incoming email, only to learn that one of mine in a residential facility had been 10-13d for safety - both of her own and that of the staff - and I'm happy that no one was injured, yet my own trauma relief at not having to deal with such an irrational episode, knowing there would've been injuries to us, as well as property damage, I feel vast, all encompassing, very deep relief. Not having that occurring here, further traumatizing my children,  results in no small amount of relief for me...and for them as well.

These 12 children deserve a safe atmosphere.  I do too, yet they are my priority.

Her rages also happen in professional settings, are managed by those who know what they are doing, yet still escalate. I remember a specific one once in Dr. C's office, shocking the psychiatrist who suggested I pursue an institutional atmosphere for her.  Well, duh.

I, as a mom, with 12 kids at home, can not keep us safe from irrational rages.  Lord knows, I've tried.  

Chuy patiently fished all day long yesterday, catching nothing, breaking all his fishing string, today I'll take him to the bait shop and get a higher quality, and access some wireless by which to publish this post.  My other boys boogie boarded, swam, set out a crab pot and used floats.

Grandma cooked a big ole supper last night, Sarah's making Black Bean Chili tonight, Yolie's cupcakes were a smash hit, and Chuck had the coffee ready when I came downstairs this morning.  Honey, this is living.  A long beach walk yesterday with my darling niece Lauren, now 23 years old, and I'm one happy camper, breathing in the salt air, breathing out decades of unrelenting stress.

The beach isn't crowded this early in the season, I think I'll spend the rest of my life avoiding crowds, beach trips before Memorial Day are delightfully refreshing.  When my kids are grown, I'll take those that can get away for some mid-winter beach trips, for long walks in the sand, for refreshing one's spirit.  Vacations are Biblical, retirement is not.  One needs to work in some capacity all one's life, if only in producing one's food which is clearly my first choice of endeavors.

My sweet Daniel is right now vacationing in Florida with his soon-to-be in-laws.  A little weird for me to think of him ensconced within another family, Jesse, too, vacations with his own in-laws.

But hey, Preston and Chuck are with me instead of their moms, it all evens out in the wash, I'm just glad that there are strong happy marriages for my grown children, blessing me with some darling grandchildren.

I'm blessed, very much so.  My kids are all being wonderful, helpful, no squabbling, doing jigsaw puzzles, playing Banana Gram, Scrabble and RummiCubes.  It's been so many long, challenging years when the rages ruined everything for everyone for so very long that nowadays severe Oppositional Defiant Disorder seems like a walk in the park.  Silly JoJo demonstrating that nothing I said, using any sort of reverse psychology, would work successfully yesterday, but he is so unbelievably funny that it's easy to overlook all of his shenanigans.  

Some of my grown kids have been very emotionally needy by phone.  I have to step outside for their constant phone calls, for their own privacy as I dole out advice, suggestions or just a healthy dose of understanding.  I'm the one depending on several of them in regards to tending to my animals.  I'm blessed, y'all, so very blessed nowadays, as they all grow older and into their own interesting, very unique personalities.

Chuck's trying to study for his IT exams, a college educated Landscape Architect who has switched careers here in his 30s, my sons are fairly demanding of his attention, today Preston will arrive to take some of the fishing heat.  Jimbo will get here today too, later taking Grandma to the Spoleto Festival in Charleston, SC for this upcoming weekend, bringing her home to Georgia later.  What a good son to his mama.  He's Grandma's baby son.

Since I brought a trailer-load of groceries, the trailer will be empty for the ride home, right?  Nope.  The four agave plants I'd scrounged here last year from a lady's yard, plants with a story, I love it, and the plants thrived all year in our Georgia Zone 8, doubling in size.  This year I can get bigger plants since we have the utility trailer. I'm thinking either palmettos or windmill palms for my Upper Gardens?  Yeah boy, that makes me happy.  

We'd eaten our first Navajo thornless blackberries before we'd left the house last weekend, Tabby bringing me a grubby fistful of large, sweet delightful berries, grinning happily.  "Mom, when I grow up I'm gonna grow exactly everything I've seen you grow.  It's so good!" she crowed, her mouth streaked with blackberry juice.

Yep, that's what I wanna model to my kids.

Beach Day One

This week may contain some sporadic posts, as I don't have Internet services.

Small price to pay for having an ocean within sight of my bed, sleeping last night with the sound of the waves crashing and a delightful coastal wind causing me to dive under the covers.

This small island on the South Carolina coast, Edisto, only has a tiny Piggly Wiggly grocery store, maybe two restaurants, but I'll not show up there, no nightlife, no nothing, just houses, the beach, and I love it.

Cheap before Memorial Day, why would I wait a week and have the prices double plus deal with crowds?

Oh, heck no.  My demanding gardens require me to be home all summer, and Martin's gonna attend summer school starting next week for a course recovery.

I'm with 14 of my kids counting Sarah and Yolie, plus Chuck and four grandchildren.  Preston's coming later this week, as is my brother Jimbo.  Grandma's with us and so is my niece, Lauren, who also got to be with her other grandparents yesterday, which is where the Ellis part of Chuy's name came from.

Who vacations with this many relatives?  

I always have done so, but Sarah used to be the baby and it was Nags Head, or Lauren was the baby.  Oh wait, according to Grandma I was the fat bratty baby all those years ago in an isolated Sandbridge shack, ten miles from any other human being.  I clearly remember those years with no running water back in the 1950s.  Loved it.

The beach is flat out fun with this crowd.

Chuck pulled the flat bed trailer of mine, loaded down with groceries, and my bigger pots and pans so I can cook here.  I'd been buying floats and skim boards for years at yard sales, sand toys and books.  Yep, we're covered.

My neighbor Johnny checks my home, the deputies notified as well.  Preston, Gina, and Marcela taking turns feeding my very sad dogs that forlornly watched us leave.  I do miss my dogs, but they can wait a few days.  Guard dogs earning their keep.

My big boys are fixing to fish all day, I'm gonna waddle around the beach and enjoy myself.

Edisto Island, South Carolins

No Internet service. I'll publish blog posts later. I'm still writing but can't publish.

Uh-Oh

I was dumping a load of wood chips and startled by an explosive sound which I attributed to a shotgun, it was just a bit off in the distance.

My cell phone rang and it was Sabrina who'd gone down to Yolie's house, "Mom, a deputy just went speeding by and he turned into Mr. Johnny's driveway."

We live down a dead end dirt road, speeding isn't a daily event.

I got scared real fast, I yelled for Chuy to get out of the meadow where he'd been refilling the lawn mower's tank, and I yelled for Martin to come with me.  I didn't have any specific thought in my head other than I didn't want Chuy shot in the meadow if there were stray bullets.

I'd no more than turned around to run towards Johnny's house when a pulme of smoke came up over the trees which really scared me.

Why did I run towards it?  Yolie asked me that later, "Then something happens to you?  What about us?"  A former parent-less inner child still screaming out.

I don't know, I just react and respond.  25 years in the public school system, it was our responsibility to tend to the issues, to quell the disturbances, to protect the students, to work however was necessary like the daily fights at one school where I'd spent 13 years, or in my nearly 40 years as a parent, I can't just ignore fire, smoke, gun shots, or fights.  I can't just hope everything is OK.

Here at home I have to be ready to respond, hopefully my first course of action is to prevent an incident, but they still occur.

All of my older boys had been startled by the explosive sound, it was way too loud to be a shotgun blast, but everything happened so fast that I never even heard any of the sirens, including the fire truck that finally responded.

Johnny and his wife are my friends, they have two daughters, I was very frightened for them. I can't tell you I'm brave and unafraid.

This old bat can run when scared, lemme tell ya.  I tore the snot out of my ankles getting through the brambles as I darted through the woods with my oldest sons.

One of the work trucks on his property had exploded, flames everywhere,  a First Responder'd gotten there amazingly fast, Johnny's barn didn't burn down, nor did he lose other equipment.

It took me an hour to calm down, to get the adrenaline out of my system, to get my heartbeat back to normal.

A non-traumatized person has an easier time of recovering, of blowing something off, it takes me awhile.  I feel like I'm always scared for either my family or myself, my friends, my neighbors...I dunno...maybe everything?

Thank God Johnny's family was fine.

His wife later laughing, asking me, "Did you think Johnny'd done away with me and set the house on fire?"

No, not really, I'm more afraid of a home invasion, the boogyman, an asteroid, or something equally as uncontrollable.

Tony'd taken the snapshot, later coming through the woods only to get into a squabble with his birth brother over nothing in front of firemen and deputies.

Sobriety Please

Three pre-paid calls already from the jail early this morning, knowing from experience that collect jail calls send me over the edge.  I've had extreme financial challenges lately, seriously not a penny to spare, no one time pizza dinner this month at all is planned.  Next month is no better with all the cheerleading expenses due.  July will be my big back-to-school new shoes for everyone expenditure.

"Dude," I stressed to my captive phone caller, "I told you not to drink.  You have a genetic component that you have no control over, this is what alcoholism is."  I know his birth father is a homeless drunk according to the birth mom who lives in the same town.  This birth couple gifted my children with extremely good looks, yet burdened them with the scary genetic predisposition for aggression and alcoholism.

"You fell off the horse," I kept on, "I still love you, I'm still proud you are working.  This doesn't change anything between us, except now it's on you to pay the fines, pail the bail bondsman, get a lawyer, and do what you have to do to properly pay your dues to society."

"Yes ma'am," subdued, and deeply disappointed in his own self, now that he's sober.

"And he can take the damn court mandated class he was supposed to already have taken," snarled my 29 year old son from work where I'd called him.  He was doing a 6 a.m.- 6 p.m. shift, irritated at the phone calls regarding this incident.

That hard-working, grown son of mine had been very angry, had tried to prevent what happened last night, but had been rudely ignored, and now is needed to co-sign the bond, because I sure as heck can not, nor will not, do so.

Do I want CPS, my other children, professionals helping our family, or my own overly-Methodist, conservative conscience to ever think I am enabling these poor decisions?  No, I don't.

What would that teach my son if I rushed in to "help" when that kind of "help" would only translate in his mind as, "I can keep on drinking because Mom will help me do so."  I want my son sober. I want all my children to always be sober.

I want my son to learn from his mistakes and to go on to eventually be the awesome man he can, and should be.

Best book on the subject, Getting Them Sober, a three volume eye-opening must-read for anyone affected by alcoholism in any aspect of their lives.

He knows this doesn't change how I feel about him.  He knows it's on him.  He's going to be a father this year and I reminded him, "Honey, you never saw me drink to cope.  I garden, I water plants, I take a long walk, I stomp, I mow grass, there are a billion proper coping mechanisms, and now you have to learn this to model it for your own kid."

I hate alcohol.  I hate it with a passion.  It is destructive, dangerous, expensive, unhealthy, and vastly problematic for so many people.

Cheese - The Temptress

Last week I went vegan for 100 hours.

Why?

Just to see if I could.  I'm a big cheese eater, pepper jack, ricotta, feta, all kinds, eggs are generally in my diet, and so is honey, of course, yet I know vegans are healthier than vegetarians so I'm curious about it.  I'm tempted.  I even lost a few pounds which is surprising, because seriously?  Cheese has done that?  I do eat a lot of it.

Sarah's a proponent of vegan before six, which is usually easy for me as well, and yesterday at a yard sale, I bought The Vegan Sourcebook by Joanne Stepaniak for a buck.  I bought Sarah a Nigella Lawson hardback for 50 cents, the retail price listed on the cover was $35.  Who doesn't shop at yard sales? Without yard sales I'd never be able to afford my reading habit.

Or check this out...Made in Italy clay pots for a buck?  Yeah, boy!

Lily, my creative genius, bought name brand blouses and accessories, hardly spent $6 total, yet will look beautifully appointed in her various outfits.

Best of all were the CDs.  Bingo big time.  Little Feat's Waiting For Columbus and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's Will the Circle be Unbroken each for less than a buck because I'd gotten two other CDs to add. I'd squealed like a pig at the find.

I'll garden my fanny off while blasting Dixie Chicken in my earbuds.  Are you kidding me?  I'd had that original album before I ever had kids, oops no, not true, Sarah was a chunky monkey toddler then, now she's almost 39 years old.

Can I even begin to measure the amount of Big Blessed Mama I feel to know that Sarah lives nearby me? After all this...that she and her husband chose to live down this loud, sometime dangerous dirt road?  So did Yolie's husband, who again bailed me out after I overfilled the van's oil reserve last night, Chuck sweetly crawling under to relieve it, Jack right behind him, as Jack deeply adores Chuck.

Grandma and Grandpa's friend died yesterday, and their family needed to use our van to pick up other family members from the Atlanta Airport.  Ten of my kids and I ran out, notified at the last minute, and emptied the soccer season detritous and everything else from our well-used van.  It appeared as if an entire soccer team had exploded within - shin guards, cleats, socks, jerseys and shorts everywhere.  CW brought out both shop vacuums and we rapidly detailed the bugger, glad to be of service, it isn't often than we can be the helpers, usually we need the help, and this turn of event helped me within.

Our 15 passenger van is 8 years old, 109,000 miles on it, it looks like lions were raised within it, but Honey, it's paid for, it's fine for us, I'm praying it lasts for maybe 3 more years and I won't hardly need it anymore, all my teens will hopefully be driving their own cars.  In two years most'll nearly be grown up, or at least at age 18.

Four are gone this weekend, CW kept wandering around muttering, "So this is what a small family feels like," even though there were still ten of us at home.

I went inside a gorgeous upscale home at a yard sale on Friday, marveling at the beauty of the house that looked out upon a lake, furnished with an outdoor kitchen and a massive TV screen on the loggia, shocked at the initial thought popping into my head, "So this is how white people live?" I didn't blurt.

What the heck. Cindy?  Are you losing your ever loving mind?

But it's as if I've lived with so many skunk-like family members, so lovely to behold, so cute and unique, yet I get sprayed unexpectedly.  It's tough to get the stink offa me.  Or to keep up with the broken window repair jobs, to fix the sheetrock each time it's kicked in.

Go figure girl, this is what trauma looks like in people.

I hugged a friend of mine I ran into at a yard sale, Lily hugged the daughter, the son spouting off an aside, "Awkward yard sale hug time," as he must've felt self-conscious to be curb-side shopping?  One of the wealthiest women I know in this county shops exclusively at yard sales, her home is incredibly lovely and filled with second hand items...duh, kids, as I've mentioned often, guess why she's wealthy?  She'd not burning money in hoity-toity over-priced retail shops.

I passed my used copy of The Automatic Millionaire to a grown kid of mine yesterday, a fairly innocuous book, simply detailing the one step to success, making one's savings automatic, yet with compound interest, it's certainly something everyone should learn as a young person.

I'll never be a millionaire as I have 39 kids, yet to have kept my head about water with 39 kids is impressive enough for me.

Another grown kid of mine just got charged with underage possession of alcohol.  I despise alcohol and the ease with which it seemingly self-medicates our country's population.  So many folks struggling with alcoholism, and worse yet, the damage that alcohol can physically do to young women.  No amount is safe in regards to breast cancer.  Even light drinkers up their risk.  Ladies, don't do it.

I'd gladly give up cheese in a New York minute if I ever found it contributed to cancer.

Mom's In A Crappy Part Of Atlanta

Entering through Door Number One some 25 years ago, trying to navigate the judicial process in Honduras where I was adopting three new daughters, then 7, 10 and 12, my Spanish was rudimentary, yet necessary.

Honduras itself was tough enough then, anti-American, the U.S. embassy had recently been burned, it was the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, the State Department issuing travel warnings, and I was out of my element of course.

I also had no clue how far out of my element I'd have to go in the next several decades.

Yesterday I left my house at 8 in the morning, arriving back home around 5ish, only to talk to Grandma for just a few minutes before Tabby fell off of her bike, Nando rushing in to get me.  Her knee and elbow looked right bad, but her nose looked immediately swollen.  Uh-oh.  I put her in my truck and drove her up to Yolie's house, who's way better than I when medical attention is required.

I could barely look, I'm very squeamish, Yolie cleaned it, and I took Tabby to the doctor who had to numb the knee to finish cleaning it properly, debriding it, five knee stitches later, he pronounced her nose unbroken.

Going back home, calling my teenagers who'd all gone out or home with other teens on this last day of school, since they knew I had to zip over to Atlanta, at least supper was there.  The school I'd retired from had given us all their leftover hamburgers from the 8th grade cookout.  Lily and I dined on the squash quiche I'd made the day before, while my sons and Tabby pigged out on the burgers.

But in Atlanta, accompanied my three grown kids, tending to issues I never dreamed I'd have to face in my life, them questioning me about proper procedures in order to stay out of trouble, steps to take with restrictions an ole bat never thought she'd have to consider when doling out advice.  Thank God I have a local Probation Officer friend I can text with my questions.

I wish I could be less vague, because there no doubt in my mind that many of you have faced what he's facing, but I just can't right now, here some five years later, I'm still bowled over, and not really ready to talk.  It's been emotionally painful and bitter.

I'd not had a bite to eat since a quick protein bar for breakfast, and there's nothing I like better than a hole-in-the-wall questionable looking Mexican restaurant.  We were in a totally Hispanic area of town where no one spoke any English, and I popped my head in first to make sure it wasn't a bar, but indeed a restaurant it was, as the aromas were heavenly.

The waitress snapping at my dark skinned son for not speaking Spanish, telling him he'd be lost in Mexico.  She wasn't getting the irony of being a non-English speaker here in America.

"What'd she say Mom?" he asked me in English obviously, which just set her back off, questioning me in Spanish if my husband was Mexican and why we didn't teach him any Spanish?  My other son was speaking Spanish at the table.

"His father was Tejano," I let it go at that, not wanting to get into either an adoption spiel or divorce issue.  My Spanish is clearly Southern influenced.

Technically, most of my children are Texican, as they call themselves, sneering at non-Spanish speaking siblings as Mexicants.

The food was amazing.  And cheap.  We weren't paying for atmosphere, rather for authenticity and flavor.

I'm a little uneasy in some of these complexes, or projects, where one of my grown daughters has been living, yet when I think about how far she's come, how limited her mental capacities are, how she's totally fluent in both Spanish and English, how she can navigate the tougher streets of Atlanta, and the myriad city bus transfers, I'm very, very impressed and I tell her so often.

Leaving Atlanta in Friday afternoon rush hour made me deeply yearn for my dirt road.  Dang, it's a mess there in the city that I was born in, yet rarely go to.

Back home?  Oh my goodness.  One son-in-law was having an MRI which had some decent results, Sarah's 13 year old dog had surgery and successfully dodged the he's-too-old issue, and Grandma got the news that one of her friend's husbands who lives in the neighborhood nearby was in his last days, his lungs filling with fluids, no doubt reminding my mom of Grandpa's last days.

But if I could say anything to you trauma mamas, I'd say there's good news ahead about your grown kids that are now breaking your heart.  I've been there many times, there's not a grown one of mine that I've not cried buckets of tears over, and literally feared for their lives, as so many seem to put themselves in harm's way, living with criminals, being chronically unemployed, self-medicated, or swayed by thug influence.  Some have served time, some are serving time.

Being away from me, being out in the cold cruel world, eventually leads them to an understanding of how hard it must've been for me back then to support others, to love those that'd been so hateful and violent, to still take their phone calls, to go out and help them as they struggle (although I'm super careful not to enable, which is sometimes hard to do, as they can be supremely manipulative)...bottom line, Mom's still here.

Lisa A made me a tapping video..how cool was that?