Their Alaska Trip

Only Tabby and Nando home with me last night, I had Grandma to babysit and I thought about kicking up my heels, painting the town red, go out dancing all night long.

Instead, being such a hermit, I went to sleep before 9:30...because I could.

Elizabeth and Brian bringing home Martin and Allen back home for me from Forward, as they have to work today, Brian locking the gate behind him for me.  Oh my goodness, manna from Heaven for this ole hag who usually has to do everything around here.

"You need to find some place in your heart to let go of everything negative," my mom broached yesterday with me, "Just remember that all this hate and negativity dumped out on you came from those who just didn't know any better."

This is how I'd explained it all to Grandma and Grandpa when they moved in here 11 years ago, finding themselves absolutely appalled at the issues I dealt with each day.  Back then Dr G made regular house calls, in home therapy every Friday, I've been blessed with the best. I'd have been lost without all the help I've received.

I know I'm now very damaged, I know I'm working to heal from within, I know I'll get there, on the other side where folks are nice to other human beings.

I'm way better now than I was several years ago when I grew that huge tumor from stress and terror.

I got out of the shower last night, glimpsing that long scar where they gutted me to remove it all, another scar from the hernia surgery, this is what past middle age looks like and I'm fine with it, my late sister never got the opportunity to wrinkle up.

Today my sweet, loving Jack turns 12.  When Grandma and Grandpa moved in he was a baby and I still worked in the school system so they babysat him for me, setting the stage for what we have now, a wonderful pre-teen totally devoted to his grandparents, still deeply sad over losing Grandpa, but he did participate in grief therapy provided by hospice back then.

This photo is of him and Grandma up in Alaska last week.  Today he's a Forward '12, I miss him and the others, my dogs are wandering forlorn around the house, wondering where did the party go?

Today my BFF for 44 years, Barbara, arrives.  Like Claudia I keep all my old friends in my heart forever, remnants of our Brownie days, right?  Words that make my brown kids crack up.  "Ha ha!  Mom's brown too."

I have two longtime friends here in Athens, Janet for 35 years and Emily for close to 25 years now.  Then there's Alison who sang at Grandpa's funeral, I met her before my first birthday there in the church nursery before I could even walk.  My high school friends, Dottie, Patti, Debby and others, that's been 40 something years too.

Now I stumble and bumble along, trying to figure this world out the best I can.

I'm also constantly asked, "Do you think you'll ever marry again?"

No, I don't.  I'm not a great catch.  I also don't want to baby anyone emotionally, don't want anyone depending on me so heavily, I'm tired.

"Aren't you gonna adopt again?"  I'm asked weekly at least.

The answer is No.

I'm moving on.

Tabby's Fun Times Oregano Harvest

There are seven of my darling sons still living here between the ages of 14-18.  Seven right good, budding men.  We're 7 for 7 this summer in man tears due to girl drama, frustration, or deeper issues related to early childhood trauma.  Tears I can deal with, no walls have been punched, no humans injured.  Thank you, Lord.  I love these guys so much.

In the gardens I generally wear my one light colored tank top.  Duh.

"Sweetheart," I said for the billionth time, "Don't wear a black t-shirt to work when it's 100 degrees outside," only to basically hear, "I am black, what does it matter?"

He is very dark-skinned and super handsome, but also extremely sweet-natured in spite of a tendency to have to have the last word all the dang time, Martin is now over 18.  I'm stunned that our time together, nearly 14 years, has so flown by, leaving me the proud mom of a really great son.

Between getting he and Allen to work and back each day, meeting CW's ride halfway to Augusta and Sabrina arriving back at the high school at that exact minute yesterday, needing to have her coach bring her home as I was then 40 miles away, my taxi driving is bo-ring.  I hate being off of my acres, my extreme comfort zone.

I love, love, love staying home with my family.

"Don't tell the coach where we live!" Jack shouted in alarm, as the coach is one of his teachers.  Silly boy, you do so well in school. I busted Jack's bubble with the words, "She and her husband have both been to our house," again illustrating how inconsequential some of our adult visitors are to my younger sons. They'd brought us a ton of furniture at one time. Jack then too young, totally oblivious, to remember.

Tabby dove into the oregano harvesting, proud as a peacock of her industrious skills, as we dump the herb onto every pasta dish all winter long.  This one plant gives us a gallon jar of dried oregano.  Tabby loves the fruit, herbs and vegetable gathering, or running in the garden sprinkler.

When The One Who Must Control Everything lived here, she'd bully my sweet Tabby, make irrational threats if Tabby even looked like she was gonna harvest anything, yet TOWMCE never harvested one single thing properly, which was the point.  All my hard work outside destroyed in minutes, a lost harvest. TOWMCE wanted control only, not to participate helpfully, but to make the family dance to a crazy drum beat.

There'd be attacks on those who dared to eat strawberries.

We were all so miserable then, me having to constantly step in to protect everyone, bruises on my arms.

The deputies would be called, more than one suggesting TOWMCE needed punishment.  Are you kidding me?  We'd all have been killed in the process. Raging Irrationality doesn't respond well to consequences, mental illnesses can be extraordinarily dangerous. A staff member was recently threatened with a box cutter blade in a facility by this one.

Grandma would have to lock all the frightened intended victims in with her on her side of the house while older boys stood by to protect me if necessary until the storm blew over which always took hours and hours.

I'm the head honcho for turning off lights, trying to reduce the outrageous electrical bill.  TOWMCE would follow me around, turning lights back on, just to attempt to make me furious.  I'd force myself to not react although I was boiling on the inside.  Did you know that all that cortisol surging in response also leeches calcium from one's bones?  I'm already osteo-arthritic - a skinny white woman thing - but the high-level reactionary cortisol and adrenaline back then speeded up the process.

Words from my physician, "You're one fist fight away from a hip fracture," she warned me, knowing how routinely I'd be slung into walls and across rooms by raging temper dysregulated teens.  "I'm willing to write a letter to the judge to keep you safe," she offered.  "Who's gonna take care of the rest of the kids if you're killed or incapacitated?"

Heck if I knew.

"We just wanna be normal," I'd wailed in court, trying to get services for TOWMCE, only to suffer a backlash of crap, but it's been worth it.  I'd felt supremely terrible when my daughters had their clothes cut up by TOWMCE, or my boys had been lied about, or when the younger kids had been hit.  I reported many of these physical attacks as assaults because they were all very scary incidents that no one should ever have to endure.  Repeated murderous threats, the deputies called to the school several times back then, even in elementary school.

Nowadays, residing in psychiatric facilities, no new charges ever get filed because they are already in a facility, which would be the consequence if they weren't there.  I understand this concept in theory, but I know that to TOWMCE, it just means, "See?  I slugged someone and got away with it.  Ha! Screw you and the horse you rode in on."

Even now, two years of not living like that, my heart races even when I think about it, the trauma revisited.  I wanna cry.  My parents did cry back then, so alarmed and fearful regarding the safety of me and the younger children. Sadly, by living here, they had front row seats to the carnage.

All Hell would've broken loose if I'd allowed Sabrina's trip to Columbus when TOWMCE lived here, she'd have destroyed everything in retaliation.  BTDT, don't have the t-shirt because it would've been stolen, desecrated or something designed to irk everyone intensely.

Inhumane living condition, not protected by the Geneva Convention.

I need to not dwell on this, honestly it makes my faltering heart hurt just by remembering.  But seriously yesterday when we cut the oregano, it all came flooding back within me.  That's what trauma looks like, PTSD, and it behooves me to shake it off and concentrate on tending to the 12 kids who live here and also then suffered deeply under TOWMCE's regime of terror.

We are all slowly leaning to breathe again, to heal, to not feel terrorized.

It was awful.

Now it's as calm as it can be, what with 12 kids still living at home, almost sweet, because  everyone's property is respected, boundaries are upheld, and love can be expressed to others without a controlling rage erupting.

Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Zero Impulse Control issues, Cyclothymic Disorder all combined - issues we still struggle with each day- is a piece of red velvet cake in comparison to what we've experienced.

Just Eat Real Food. Period.

But really?  Wanna hear what folks ask me more'n anything?  It's not about raising 39 kids, but rather,  "How do you stay so thin?  What's your secret?

Ain't no secret, I just eat real food. A plant based diet.  No meat ever, very few animal products other than dairy like greek yogurt or cheeses, and I'm cutting way back in this realm.

Not food that comes in a box, prepared with chemicals, not fast food, very rarely a restaurant meal, but everyday low on the food chain.

I'm not thin anymore, I'm regular.

Yesterday I had a big bowl of granola with rice milk and a banana.  OK, two bananas, I have an extraordinarily big appetite.  Lunch was a huge cantaloupe, I ate the whole thing by myself, plus a carton of greek yogurt for protein.  Supper was whole wheat pasta with grated cheeses, herbs, onions, olive oil, tomatoes and black olives.  A snack after church for me was an entire pineapple cut up.

Bet you can't eat an entire pineapple.

CW loves pasta and had instagrammed that picture last night.  I grow some to-die-for onions. Nando'd picked us a bowl full of what I'd planted in February.

Somedays I eat a couple squares of dark chocolate, or a sandwich for lunch, somedays I eat piles of whatever fresh vegetables or fruits are available, piles that'd shock you at their size, like I'm a lumberjack or something, such as my mongo heaps of Swiss Chard.  Sarah suggests I serve it on a bed of brown rice, but that takes too long to cook, and I usually wait until I'm starving and thus childishly impatient.

I drink gallons of water and a pot of coffee each day.  Unsweetened herbal teas in the winter.

This is how our bodies were originally intended to be fed.  Maybe not this much food, but I expend a ton of energy each day.  I need high-octane fuel that's found in the plant world.

When tomatoes are in, the kids and I love to slice 'em up, top each slice with grated pepper jack cheese, black pepper and sea salt, and we each eat huge platefuls as a snack.

I weigh 126-129, depending on if I've over-indulged, which I'm free to do if I wanna.  Sarah weighs five pound less and looks a billion times better, because she's young, lithe and lovely, versus me being old and raggedy, but I've so earned this privilege.

I'll break my own rules and eat a Krispy Kreme if I want to, or salt and vinegar potato chips, (love 'em) but not often.  I don't crave them often, I crave a bucket of freshly picked blueberries - a five gallon work bucket, not some prissy pink tiny thing.

I eat ginormous bowls of popped on the stove in olive oil popcorn almost every night, with sea salt and nutritional yeast, parsley too, if I've grown me some.  Some nights I'll steam a pile of squash and eat it before bed.  In desperate winter months I've been known to eat a can of beets, yet the newest BPA research on store-bought cans has now discouraged me from doing that so much.

I dumbly once bought into the low-fat craze until I realized our body deeply needs the good fats for brain functioning, so I prefer full fat sour cream and cheeses.  Marketeers replaced the fat with chemicals.  Dang boys, gimme the fat instead.

I believe that I eat very, very well.  I also think that others might not want to eat as I do, and I just can't understand that.  Sarah says I'm wrong, that her generation is better at it than mine which is probably true.

But seriously women of the world, we've sadly all bought into the worldview espoused by the media regarding svelte physiques and youthful sophistication, where women end up with eating disorders and body dysmorphic problems.

Body dysmorphic disorder is a type of chronic mental illness in which you can't stop thinking about a flaw with your appearance — a flaw that is either minor or imagined. But to you, your appearance seems so shameful that you don't want to be seen by anyone. Body dysmorphic disorder has sometimes been called "imagined ugliness."

Why do we do this?

Why can't we all just appreciate our uniqueness?  All, I repeat ALL women are beautiful.

We just need to eat plants for better health.

Kicking

Practical as always, logical to a fault, Grandma pointed out that it wasn't necessarily accurate that everyone I met last weekend in the mountains was so nice, it's just that I have a sadly skewed viewpoint of humans, because so many of my relationships are antagonistic or adversarial.

True that.

I do spend too much time having to fight for support or resources, understanding, or even any slight remnant of compassion.

At home I have oppositional kids, I have those who can't comprehend simply being polite when someone feeds, clothes, nurtures and tends to you.  Minor aspects of civility.  I also shake with fear remembering the long dark nights in which I feared for my life.  Thank God that's over.

Instead they are resentful in ways they simply don't even understand, yet I do.  I get that the primal wound of losing multiple caretakers leaves one angry, hardened, and fearful.  I do get it.

However it has left me wide-eyed with my own trepidation, never sure if I'm gonna get acknowledged or disrespected.  My upside down world has left me reeling and basically afraid of others, unwilling to trust certainly, reclusive, and almost timid, like a kicked puppy.

"We're Mom," Marcela wryly told Yolie the other night as they chose seats against the wall and away from other happy (normal) women.  They'd worked the Women's Summer Supper at church, hostesses with the mostest, they'd had fun and finally settled in to listen to the speaker only to notice they'd sat exactly where I'd have chosen, with an eye on the Exit sign, close by so as to make a hasty departure should it be necessary.

I'd rather chew aluminum foil than make small talk, I've lost the ability to censor myself in normal settings.  It'd be me mumbling, "I shaved my legs for this?"  Better that I just stay home, right?

I very rarely choose to sit with others, my own rejection issues and PTSD overtaking common sense.

Both of the girls, Marcela and Yolie, now in their 30s are homebodies, as are many of my older, settled and stable daughters, eschewing the bright lights of anywhere in favor of their own castles that they've bought and nested within happily.

I do know that they learned that from me, they didn't grow up eating fast food, browsing malls, nor looking out the windows in the hopes that entertainment would be out there in the streets, rather it is within them to find their own sources of joy inexpensively and simply.

That's how and why they can own their homes nowadays here in the midst of a staggering recession.

Finally my tomatoes are coming in, I'm the last one in the county I'd wager to get fresh tomatoes, the blight not too bad so far, but our pervasive drought was discussed here, filling me with dread.

EMC tore up my dirt road, using blades instead of herbicides thankfully to remove all brush and trees from around power lines and poles, opening up huge areas, overkill certainly, why cut down one when a dozen'll due?  Want a stick of TNT with that chore?  Jeepers.

The good news is that they dumped a huge load of wood chips here for me, it's like being handed a hundred dollar bill so valuable is this load, especially during droughts.  I even spread it in the chicken coop, keeping the eggs clean and healthy, making the hens so happy to scratch, kick and sling the fresh bedding.

Grandma, Scotty, even JoJo (sorta) and I shucked 172 pounds of corn yesterday, literally I ate 8 ears of corn my own self which reminds me I'd not posted the post I'd written on food, also reminding me there's been nearly a hundred other posts I've not published because I was terribly angry when I'd written them, once again the act of waiting for calm to prevail inside of me has served me well.

Some of my younger adult kids, those in their 20s, have been super emotionally dependent upon me lately, finding out the hard way that the lessons I'd deeply desired to impart within them were actually Major Truths About Life.  Duh guys, it's called Logic 101.

"I can't fix this for you," I've repeated over and over lately because I can't fix it.  I can't undo what they've done.  I can't enable nor cripple them with Mommy Dependence, they've got to live and learn, but I am glad they are calling me for suggestions, even if they don't exactly follow what I say.

Dear Lord, please help them learn from mistakes as well as from their successes.

Today CW returns from Augusta and Sabrina from Columbus, Georgia.  Tomorrow ten of my kids leave for Forward '12.

Can't remember if I'd used this photo of JoJo and his three footed terrier Amelia and Riley, or not.

Better if I end with a picture of my brother Jimbo's Hurricane Lily, further demonstrating the nerdiness of Bodie Homebodies of which Jim is a prime example in such a good way.

He's lived in his home for more'n 20 years six hours south of me in Tallahassee and I've never been able to go visit him.  He comes here a lot, well not often enough for me, but with Grandma living here it's been more times as he's a great son to her.

When everyone is grown, I'm heading to his house and then to my sweet, handsome son Jesse's house near the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY.  Me in New York?  That ought to be good for a laugh.

Door Painting, First Paycheck, and A Phone Call From a Deputy

When you ask an artist to paint a door, this is how she does it, there were horses drawn on the baseboard before she finished the job.  White trim work is a dumb idea around here.

I'd forgotten how traumatized children will always make someone pay for abandoning them, even if the act of abandonment is going to the grocery store and leaving an 18 year old alone for five minutes.

I get away so very little, like once last year to Lauren's William & Mary college graduation for less than 48 hours, and again this year with Lauren's dad for a 48 hour time period.

"What do you do for some ME time?' I'm asked about a thousand times when folks hear I have so many kids.

I answer, "I garden," and folks look at me as if I didn't understand this very simple question.  OMG, she's addled, they've gotta be thinking.  But, I wanna holler, I LOVE gardening.

OK, technically there is no me time when one has chosen to parent a large family.  I did factor that in when making this decision years ago, and that was long before I understood the payback phenomena.

Everyone was very glad to see me Sunday night, yet they all woke up on the wrong side of the bed Monday morning, snarling, oppositional, disobedient, rude, hateful, mean and ornery, nipping at my heels, swatting like grouchy bears at everyone else.

Finally at dark o'clock I retreated to my room, so very glad this day was over.

The behaviors were predictable, all contrived subconsciously to make me regret and pay for leaving them.

I get it, I really do.  I'd just forgotten, since I rarely ever leave for even 48 minutes.

I sank into a deep, tired slumber, worn out since no one lifted a finger to help for a single minute yesterday, except Lily who painted and CW who mowed.  Two bonded since birth kids, so very predictable.

The phone rang loudly at one a.m. and I struggled to become conscious enough to blearily answer it.

"This is the Sheriff's Department," words I don't wanna wake up to, my heart seemingly exploding then with crazy fear, "We need you to come pick up your son," the deputy told me, using my home phone, not my cell phone, and I had a challenge wrapping my mind around his words, not even recognizing his name.

"What?" I brilliantly responded, completely confused.

Apparently one of mine had snuck out of the house, had a friend pick him up, and they were happily gallivanting around like they were grown folks who paid their own bills.

Not.

"This is fairly minor," a deputy told me when I got there.

"Not to me it isn't," I replied.

Another deputy had arrived that I knew, he was trying to hold back his laughter.  I didn't look that amused.  He's wrassled bears at my house before.

Like The Adoption Counselor writes, after years of kids rebelling constantly and almost idiotically, this is so predictable, yet highly annoying.

We rode back to the house in complete silence.

I prefer to address issues when I'm calm.

I do wonder someday when this is all over, will I recover properly, or will I just sit in a corner sucking my thumb, saving my pennies up to buy adult diapers?

Conversely, Allen received his first paycheck yesterday, all the layers of ironies involved, as his sibling group, with the exception of Miriam, has really and spectacularly struggled with the concept of gainful employment.  Fabian finally is holding down a full time job, a very difficult one in a poultry processing plant, I've expressed my pride in him, and to him, quite often, Vanessa also is working over in Alabama, Edgar is/was employed out in the mid-west right now.

An issue-ridden sibling group of seven who are on Year 13 of being my kids, JoJo's the baby of that group.  Even he has been doing some (itty-bitty teeny-tiny) chores this summer without a complete meltdown, we are seeing incremental progress.  Those of y'all who've read my blog for so long can very likely recall the challenges we've encountered.  I'm clearly not naming one of them right now, almost 19, who isn't working, nor trying very hard to make me proud.

It's so inordinately easy to make me proud, my expectations are so very minimal.

This picture is for Ms Carr, who taught Allen (and CW that same year along with many others of mine) in third grade, infinitely patient and incredibly understanding, especially of Allen's emotional challenges.  To this day he remains crazy about her, as do all my children.  To have had such incredible teachers has made a lifelong imprint upon my extremely challenging children, to have had other adults pour into them, besides mama, is priceless.

We've been blessed, thank you Boss, Miss Debbie and Michael, Pastors Bronson, Chris, Anthony, Emory, and Tracy over the years, Pastors Tony, Terry, Geoff and David, our high school guidance counselor Mike is amazing, Miss Lisa and other children's pastors, and so many teachers and coaches.

We've truly and deeply been blessed with The Best.

Re-Entry With Mountain Sites

It had been their Summer Solstice event weekend there in the mountains at the Blue Ridge Mountain Club.  I met some super interesting people, very much so, so out of my realm of trauma mamas and local friends here.  

I didn't mention anything at all about my family until the night I sat with a blindingly handsome man who spoke of his special needs, grown daughter's health challenges from his first marriage, making an interesting statement, "It's been the worst thing and the best thing that's happened to me," he shared.  Certainly I truly understand his thought process.  My own family has taught me so very much about life in spite of the uber difficulties we've encountered.

Indeed I'd stepped into such a different world from my own subsistence living, as my favorite brother-in-law answered another man's questions  about trade negotiations in the Commerce Department where Kevin works in DC, my own hillbilly life of weeding and tending to traumatized children 24-7 seemed bizarre in comparison.  I just did a lot of smiling and nodding, while surreptitiously checking my phone for service, hoping for no texts regarding disasters back on the home front.

We'd toured a two million dollar house a builder had done on spec.  I admired it greatly, but didn't envy it at all, preferring my own shabby, yet homey version of a very large house.  I suppose I was more'n a little intimidated by the exquisite design and detail work he'd done.  Another builder had explained and shown us his timber construction abilities that was way past fascinating, telling us exactly how he sited a house perched, nearly clinging to a mountain ledge, choosing a specific tree and siting everything in reference to it. Dang, I was so impressed.

It took a four wheel drive vehicle to get us to one beautiful rock strewn creek, reminding Kevin and I both of a family reunion we'd attended about 20 years ago in the same mountain range with all my Bailey cousins and their families, when Kevin's wife, my sister Ellen was still living.  Come to find out we were just a few miles away from that same community.

The next generation of my Bailey cousins are equally as amazing.  Kevin's daughter, Lauren, is leading a youth group work mission team in New Orleans this weekend, Aven's daughter, Hannah, and her husband in China on missions, Gary's daughter, Katie Bay, now in Chile for her Spanish education for six months, no slugs amongst us, that's for certain, and this is only June's schedule.

My daughter, Sarah, like me, working a home mission where there's little admiration, no respect and certainly no accolades for choosing the unglamorous world of tending to 39. Oh well, it's a calling...Yolie's heard and heeded to it also.  I'm grateful to them both for all their massive help over all these years.

She-of-one-outfit, Miss Fashion Challenged, well I so totally forget there's an entire world out there where moms don't have to stop explosive raging behaviors, nor deal with Oppositional Defiant Disorder.  There are some very normal people walking this earth, matter of fact that's the majority rule.  Go figure.

I find it shocking.

My own children behaved beautifully here at home for Sarah, JoJo'd been in very high gear, entertaining the snot out of her, no doubt describing snot rockets where you close off one nostril while expelling the contents of the other as far as possible.  I apologize to you coffee drinkers out there right now for the visual, but adolescent boys have unique frames of reference.

I know that JoJo worked very hard all weekend to regale Sarah via hilarious behaviors, I know he made her laugh until her stomach ached.  He's just built that way.

Nando had expressed his very nervous misgivings about me leaving, I ran around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off Friday afternoon, making sure I'd tended to everything, stocked the house with groceries and covered all my bases, initially fretting over my decision to go, but knowing I'd have a blast with Kevin.  Even my dogs went hyper vigilant, their lovely sets of expressive brown eyes nervously watching my every move, especially Shatter and our Chihuahua cat-dog Riley.

As we headed back down south yesterday, I literally felt the strong, magnetic pull of my children and I was greatly looking forward to seeing them.  I missed them.  I really did.

Sarah'd made a monster sized pot of Black Bean Chili, so very delicious that nearly every kid verbally thanked her for it, her handsome husband, Preston, now 46, jumping on the trampoline with them all, playing guitar, dazzling Lily and CW with his skills.  Lily, our resident produce manager, had gathered onions and peppers from my garden for the chili pot.  "Mom," CW expressed last night to me, "You really need to learn how to cook this for us."

I've already taken Sabrina over to the high school before dawn this morning, tomorrow CW is headed to Augusta, Ga for two days, a mom and I have worked out those details, and this weekend is Forward, a church retreat involving ten of my kids in the youth group.

Tony'd walked down the dirt road last night, photographing yet another snake and now I need to google, or somehow plow through a pile of Denis Waitley books to find his model of decision making that I'd tried to explain to Kevin.

I'd written a post on food that I'd planned to publish while I was gone, but had no internet service, I'm so often asked what do I eat.

And Jimbo and Ms Carr...oh my goodness, your mongo acts of generosity moved me to tears last night.

Stepping Out Of My Life For A Minute

So that's how the other half lives?

For real?

Wined and dined, literally a catered meal under the outside, gorgeous pavilion on the side of a mountain at the Blue Ridge Mountain Club, a 6000 acre private park, convenient seclusion right outside Blowing Rock, NC, where I don't think I've been since I was about ten years old.

My favorite brother-in-law, Kevin, rented a gorgeous cottage, gardens everywhere, cool mountain air, nearly up to the NC/VA state line where the BRMC had sent him a wine and cheese basket, brunch the next day, and ATM rides all over the mountain, me questioning the builder about septic tanks, wells, and learning a crapload.  Didn't have internet up there, hardly had much cell phone coverage at all.

Kevin and I checked out several other mountains, plus some raw land, finishing up today closer to Georgia in Franklin, NC where my brother'd bought a piece of property for a song and a dance, right close to a very beautiful river.

Gone 48 hours, met a ton of super nice people at the BRMC, not hoity-toity, but instead just a bunch of folks who like to be outside in the mountains.

Sarah stayed here all weekend, being me, notice the look on her face as JoJo stayed in her hair for 48 hours, Preston running kids to jobs, Yolie and Chuck had the boys over one night plus got Sabrina to her other job and back, and Michael G had 'em the previous evening. I'm incredibly grateful.

My boys scared up a black snake, pissed it off enough that it rared up at Hazel, zooming past her, she froze, Sarah screeched, resulting in yet another family story.

Ray farted out a tooth.  Seriously. Farted and simultaneously lost a tooth.  You can't make up the stuff that happens around here.

Jack and Grandma return late tonight from Alaska, and I gotta have Sabrina up at the high school at 5:30 in the morning for her cheer leading trip to Columbus, Georgia.

Too bad we can't seem to find enough to do.

Tony running a photo-documentary recording of the 48 hours I missed.

Hornets

There's just no good place, or I just don't have a decent camera to really get a good picture of any of my gardens, but suffice it to say, I sure do love 'em, spending hours and hours in the last 20 years of gardening here on this one perfect-for-me piece of property.

I came up on some men yesterday trimming trees for Walton EMC.  "Whatcha gonna do with the wood chips?" I hollered out my truck window.

"Bring 'em to you?" one man guessed correctly.

Their bossman said he'd likely get up about three loads for me today.  FREE!  I've already churned through three truckloads since Spring.

As the majority of my kids are now grown, with 9 in their 30s this year, 12 in their 20s, I'm choosing my words carefully, not often identifying who I'm talking about, I'd totally leave them out of my posts except so many of y'all also have grown kids and although we are now not beholden legally to them, I'm finding that since it's become a choice, their choice, they are choosing (eventually) to stay emotionally close.

We've had years of estrangement with some, there's been outright rejection of me by some, you know, the stoopid white woman thing, and there's been varying degrees of vulnerability and rapport.  It's been a long strange trip.

There've been marriages, several divorces, many grandchildren - and there too I see issues that are dismaying sometimes, other times I'm blown away by the really good parenting I am witnessing.

It seems as if they reject every financial lesson I ever taught them, preferring to 'drop loads of cash' as they say, only to find themselves strapped and broke, well duh.

They reject religion, church, and pretty much all authority until they bump their heads against life enough to finally comprehend why Big Mama clings to her faith.

I barreled out of here unexpectedly to take two grandkids to swimming lessons yesterday, their Mom wasn't feeling well at all, two more will be spending the night here tonight.  Four are taking swimming lessons, even though they're fully able to function in water, the moms want them trained professionally, and rightly so.

Many of you have asked about my son-in-law with the immigration problems that won't go away.  La Migra is winning it seems, it's been four years now.

CW, my hero, out mowing until dark last night stirred up a hornet's nest, while I yanked up the excess four o'clocks which only slung their seeds even further.

Sabrina's two jobs and the demands of being on two cheer leading teams (sidelines and competition) is keeping her extremely busy, she leaves at 5:30 in the morning next week for a camp.

Mr Standoffish asked to go talk to Dr. Mandy.  He asked.  I've often suggested it, but I don't push it, it needs to come from within.  He was super impressed with her brilliance.  An I told you so moment, that I wisely, for once, refrained from crowing out loud.

Who Remembers Librarians?

"How are you doing?" a man eagerly asked me last night, as I bought yet another four gallons of milk at the country grocery store and gas station.

"Fine, and you?" I routinely replied. I just thought he was being friendly, this is the South after all.  We chat up everyone.

"1992," he chirped.

I stared uncomprehendingly.

He explained he'd been a student where I'd been the media specialist years ago, "You remember the good ones," he explained to me and CW who wasn't even born 20 years ago.

Unreal.  20 years ago?  I had curly, very dark hair, now I'm a bottle blonde, and very banged up by life events.  I was Sarah's age back then, only 37 years old.

"Who remembers librarians?" CW muttered on the way out.  "Get a life dude."

I dunno Honey, the loud, goofy ones make an impression maybe?  More'n a few of them are now my friends on Facebook, all of 'em very grown now, parents and successful members of society, kids I'd really liked back then and still do today.

I'd allowed Tabby to attend another Vacation Bible School event last night at her friend's church, she's asking to go tonight as well.

I've been babying Allen through his torn muscle, weight-lifting disaster, very impressed that he'd not said a  word to his boss about it, not wanting to be sent home, this is only a five week job opportunity, and he wants to make the most of it. I've expressed my pride in him every single morning.

Huffpost Money section, so much to learn, so little time,  had some interesting stories about folks living without money or totally off the financial grid when it comes to banking services, stories I find compelling, as our society that so dumbly over extended itself on credit is now paying the price via The Great Recession.  I just think it's more than money, using it or not, having it or not, and the emphasis should be on personal responsibility, and even conservatism when it comes to finances.

The deeper implications involve our group insecurities that must be so profound that we keep thinking the coolest, most expensive fashion fad will make us the next It Girl?  Or that folks will flock after us if only we have an Escalade?

So contrarily, will folks leave me alone since I accidentally took a vow of poverty when adopting so many kids?

Rich in family, poor in material goods?

My living room furnishings are uglier than homemade sin, but fully functional, bought at Goodwill and yard sales, which is good enough for me right now at this time in m life.

And just because my wants involve second hand or salvaged materials doesn't make it any less of a want, does it?  How cool is this from Southern Living?

I'm blithely uninterested in reading about the excesses of rich folks, rather I'm glued to the stories of those living with very little.

Sarah and I discuss these theories at length, fascinated by the ramifications of every penny spent, invested, saved or lost.

Yolie and I discuss adoption issues, my right brain, left brain daughters, two very individual, unique, opposite, and super intelligent women who've blessed me so much over the years.

I acted up at church last night, copying Sarah's move as if we were six year olds, but I do love to crack her up.

Right now I'm wishing all y'all up in Duluth Minnesota, where flooding is occurring...can't ya just pull the plug outta the drain and let it flow down here?  We're dry as a bone.  Lily picked a couple of tomatoes for me, the Roma ones that again showed signs of blight, greatly distressing me.  That's not due to a lack of rain, but some other garden issues are so terribly dependent on water.  Duh.

And oh my goodness, do I miss Jack and Grandma, or what?  Karen is photodocumenting the trip, I jump to Facebook to see what she's posted, here's Jack and her grandson, Owen, on the Yukon Train up in Alaska.

And Shatter, Jack's dog is truly missing his buddy, attaching itself yesterday to Hazel's doll as a poor substitute for Jack.

View From My Vantage Point

The only reason my desk looks cleaned off is because the inbox tray is hidden in my seat and my laptop is perching there as well, I need to view my cleaned off spaces in order to still my always pounding heart.

The chair is a repurposed new addition, I don't even remember buying it, but it's been living at Sarah's house for years, now she has no need of it.  Kids kept coming into my office as I worked on our budget and did the other onerous paperwork.  My view is of their innate cuteness.

I also carried back the crib and bureau that I'd bought 16 years ago at an antique store for CW, who was soon followed by Lily, then Jack, along with Ray, then Hazel. I stored the items away, harbingers of wonderful memories, awaiting use by their own children someday.

A true minimalist would not have so many books and plants.  Just because I have little to no money invested doesn't erase their space-sucking attributes.  I have minimalist tendencies, that's all, but not when it comes to books or plants.

I use minimalism as my excuse to not have to have many clothing choices, clothing is boring.

My minimalism has deep roots simply in non-spending.  I've never been a spender, never enticed by beauty products that don't do squat, nor fashion that needs maintaining, nor stuff.

Gimme a garden and a hand rake and I'm good to go.

Jack called me from Juneau, Alaska yesterday, fixing to go on a helicopter tour of glaciers.  Wow, just wow, I really am green with envy.  Grandma and one of her Bridge friends along with Karen's family, are having a blast there.

I miss him immensely.

CW's new friendgirl had invited him to attend church with her.  Our own church is casual, CW'd outgrown his dress shirts so we ran into Goodwill and got him a lovely brand name shirt for the occasion, only for him to find out that the Atlanta metro church was as laid back as out own.

CW, AKA Dubs, likes fashion crap even less than I do.  His eyes glazed over, "Can't you get it without me having to go?"  Like I'm a good judge of either sizing or looks?  We took Lily with us for help.

He's handsome and girls flock after him, he doesn't care, he's not that interested in the drama they create.  He's sweet and quiet, loving and helpful, his presence in my life has been delightful at all times.

This picture was in our upstairs hallway that desperately needs a coat of paint - a winter project I'll tackle when it gets cold.  Today is the first day of summer, painting is not on my agenda at all.  Yes, I do see the burned spot on the floor where many years ago some darling had left the hot iron there.  The shoes?  Not what he wore that day, I assume, but maybe he did.  I rarely notice crap like that.

Adrenaline, Cortisol and Crashing

When the adrenaline wears off, the crash is exhausting.  When I can feel the cortisol levels surging through my body, wearing my overly-burdened heart out prematurely, that alone irks me, knowing that others have the power to shorten my life span by the stress they dump out upon me, I seek out ways to fight back and regain my own control be it through deep breathing, prayer, or weeding.

I shouldn't allow others to have this power, but I just get so shocked by it all.  I know from adoption circles that it happens to us all.

I worked late yesterday afternoon to regain control after an incredibly hyper-stress day, cooking beans in the kitchen when I heard a thud and a yelp of pain from the garage, my heart again pounding wildly, and I darted out the door which was hanging open anyway, as I'm the only one who comprehends door mechanisms.

Allen was lifting weights, no spotter as he retold it because everyone in our family is too lazy.  He'd not dropped a weight, but felt he'd injured something within his shoulder blade.  Tears were leaking from his eyes.

Being highly emotional at all times to the point of a social anxiety level, it then took me over an hour to convince him we needed to have a doctor rule out a muscle tear.  I threatened to call paramedics if he continued refusing medical treatment.

Yolie finally convinced him to go, noting the swollen area, knowing how much he cares about his body shape to the point of vanity.

She babysat while I dragged his almost 17 year old self up the highway to the doctor who reassured me nothing was broken, like a rib bone, but that he did tear the muscle, no more weight lifting for two weeks, much to his despair.

By nightfall I really was flattened like I'd been steam-rolled, the culmination of some deep, intense stress that I'll detail at a later date when the outrage doesn't still consume me, and I can be certain I won't resort to cussing.

I honestly never factored in, when considering the adoption of older kids, how much outside Hell would be dumped upon me.  But then I think about folks losing their homes in the Colorado wildfires, or about Aimee Copeland's flesh eating bacteria ordeal, or other health challenges facing folks, and then I feel lame and stupid for my own complaining.  Sabrina's coach had gone to either high school or college with Aimee.  All of Georgia now praying for her recovery.

I'd gotten the best phone call this weekend as my very longtime friend, Janet, got the test results back from her second battle with cancer.  She was clear.  I nearly sobbed with pure T relief.  Thank you Lord.

Sabrina's working at a kiddie camp cheer leading clinic this week, plus her regular fast food job, and at times also working in the church nursery, while Allen and Martin are doing a pretty great job with the parks department.  CW mowed for hours yesterday, Tony and Lily finished getting supper on the table under Yolie's supervision when I hadda bolt, and I ended up leaving the laundry drying outside all night long, too tired to drag it in by bedtime.

 I did get all the dadgum dishes done.  I swanny, as my Grandma Bodie used to say, every single dish, pot and pan in my large kitchen was dumped into my huge industrial sink, took me an hour to hand wash it all.  I finally got to waddle off to my lovely bedroom and welcoming TV set, Nando on my heels wanting me to watch a movie with him that he'd taped.  Old Dogs which was slapstickingly funny. Just what I needed.

So beat, so worn out, that I lay down to eat popcorn, the nutritional yeast dumped everywhere as the fan was blowing across the room on a high speed.  "Dang, Mom," Mr Eyewitness News Nando reported, "You're making a mess."

I don't care, I'm the housekeeper.  I can make a mess if I wanna.  Man, I felt like an old dog.

I'd inherited enough money from my sister long ago that built our swimming pool.  Lately finances have been so dang tight that I didn't even have enough money for the pool pump gasket repair and everything else needed to open it for the summer.  It's still not open, but is closer, thanks 100% to Chuck's hard work.

I've lately been slammed with issues, challenges, and trials so to speak, money only being one of them.  Every single day this month I've worked diligently on my spreadsheets and charts, trying to figure out how to get it all done.  Sabrina will start college in just another year, time to be planning for it.  It'll probably be cheaper than cheer leading, certainly more valuable.

Sarah'd recently taught me a super important lesson on spiritual warfare that I've incorporated and pondered,  very pleased with what it's done for me already in my super splintered mind which is way more than half of any battle, and I super liked the comment here from Brenda.  Essentially it is, Who is rich? Whoever is happy with what he has.  


The lengthy, yet important, explanation follows in the comment.


So, once again, I'm rich.  In spite of my speadsheet bottom line.

Crying In Public Part 986

White House Black Market - four words I'd never heard of until yesterday, when Sarah bought a WHBM dress for $1.20 at a yard sale.  These dang frocks cost more'n a hundred each.  Expensive material, fully lined and the price was right.  When one is a size four, one can find a bunch of pretty clothes, not that I'd know, I just look at Sarah to know.

People wanna whine, "Eeeeuuuwww, used clothes?"

Honey they're used the minute someone tries them on the fitting room.

Here's what you should always buy used, according to one money blogger.

How does one know I read my son's blog?  Swiping his pictures is one clue.  Happy Father's Day Jesse!  He'd sent me a "Happy Father's Day Mom" line on my Facebook wall that was soooo sweet.

-------------------------------------------------
I wrote the above yesterday but didn't publish it.

Had a tough day today, not involving any of the darlings here at home.

I swear y'all just wouldn't believe half the outrage I'm forced to endure at times, nor the humiliation, yet another sweet deputy handing me Kleenex.

Karma's gonna pound some other folks someday, of this I am sure. Do haters really gotta hate?

It eventually turned out well for me, but not until I'd spent a couple of months crying buckets of tears.

An old Neville Brothers song has a line, "And I know that my faith will see me through," on their song, Sitting Here in Limbo.

I'm The Richest Person

Sarah'd picked up a personal finance book for me at a yard sale by an author I liked and as I opened to read it, I saw a handwritten post-it note attached to the fly leaf that read:

 The richest person is not the one who has the most, but the one who needs the least.

I googled the phrase, and found it attributed to author unknown.

I thought about it the entire day, it's a life changing concept to me, a crystallization of all I've tried so wordily to impart.

Me, who has always stated that I just needed a bowl, a plate, a knife, a fork, a spoon, a spading fork, and a hand rake in order to fulfill my food and kitchen needs.

Gimme a TV set, a computer, and a lazy boy chair for the rest of my house.

Throw in a bed and some coat hangers so I can organize what few clothes I'm saddled with, and the rest is superfluous nonsense.

All I ever wanna do for entertainment is to dig in the dirt, knowing I'll never be caught up, nor even particularly satisfied that my garden beds are just so.  I wanna divide plants and make new ones with what I have on hand, I wanna eat good from the garden, as Hazel illustrates, having come over to my house yesterday in her nightgown and running straight outside to pick and eat blueberries, just as her mom Sarah has done all her life, as have I, as has my Mom.

It's who we are.

All my books and houseplants, no matter how inexpensive, are just wants, not needs.

I've never quite understood shopping as a hobby, I felt I just wasn't woman enough maybe, or could I just be part Martian?  Was I dropped on my head in a store as a baby?  But now I get it.

I suppose I do need my truck still, some mason jars and canning lids, plus my canner, and a pan plus a skillet.  A fridge and a freezer to put food by from the garden.  A stove?  Or a raw foods diet?  It'd be my choice, generally I prefer raw.

And, oh yes, my cell phone.

So son of a gun, I feel thunderously struck by the major lightening bolt of having had a momentous epiphany.

That's what works for me, that of needing the least, feeling overly burdened, even literally stressed out too intensely by stuff.

Again, I emphasize Annie Leonard's very short video history of stuff that so illustrates exactly how I feel, our stuff reminds us that we suck.

No one can rob me of my education, nor of the millions of books I've read and stored in my head, no one can steal my experiences nor my relationships with other humans,  nor my memories of where I've traveled, it's the whole 'keeping my treasures in Heaven' line from the Bible.

Having lived so deep within trauma, having been stolen from for so many years, fighting to be understood as simply a mother who cares, I feel deeply blessed this morning to have encountered this specific lightening bolt of a philosophy.

Cheap Haircuts

First Tithonia of the season, a Mexican Sunflower, Lord knows what speciality plants cost in a store, I'd sown a packet of seeds in February, and ended up with several dozen plants.  It also reseeds itself prolifically and is a tried and true magnet for hummingbirds and butterflies.  In another week there'll be hundreds of blooms.  I'll then spend hours deadheading in order to keep it blooming until late fall.

I took Sabrina, Scotty and Jack to town for haircuts, picking up a truckload of leaves to reward myself, and I sat there leafing through magazines and thinking I'm really glad I'm old, off the market, turned out to pasture, whatever.  I can't believe I'm gonna say this, but I'm finding modern life appalling, if not alarming.

Do young females not have any respect at all for themselves?  It's like so many people are lost, without purpose or much meaning in their lives, I read enough articles on emptiness to make me get up and pace the salon.  Set some goals, America, that don't involve spray tans and see if that works out better for you.

Boring mags so I read Facebook on my phone, so many folks on vacation, how cool is that, makes me happy for everyone.

Finally we were done, Lord Have Mercy, I was having a cow.  We'd tried the School of Cosmetology place where haircuts were only $4.99.  Sabrina and Jack's went quickly, but the lady took over an hour on Scotty.  I had ants in my pants, unable to hold still.

"Look at IFunny," Jack suggested, knowing I often bust out laughing, this time was no exception.

I made two forays into Ms Carr's neighborhood, needing more leaves than one might humanly imagine.

Jack's gone to Alaska with Grandma, a trip they'd planned two years ago with Grandpa, but there at the end he went fast and couldn't make it, going on a trip to Heaven instead.  The sweetest almost 12 year old on earth, it'll seem like a really long week without Jack here.

I'm the last woman in America to harvest my first tomato.  My tomatillas are rampant however.

An older teenage son came up into my room late last night, "Can we talk?"

Some girl who liked him had laid an emotionally heavy load upon his shoulders.  Girls, really?  These are soccer playing, shoot-out obsessed fart machines, unable to be therapeutically interested in a female's deep innermost feelings.  Don't lay this stuff on them, go tell your moms.

I wish I had a dollar for how many times my sons have mentioned that girls they knew need a Dr. Mandy.

Oh, Honey, we all do.

Bless his heart.  I'm just glad he felt he could confide in me.  I don't ask what the girls name is unless it is a safety issue.  We talked for a while and he trotted off feeling relieved that he didn't have to solve the world's problems.

A Lifetime of Free Plants

Following links from one blog to another, how else to keep learning, right?  I came across this post in Financial Samurai that stayed in my busy head for the entire afternoon.  I'm not much for either saving or investing, survival is my mode, keeping our heads above water, this hasn't exactly been easy.

I pondered the chart all day, it takes me longer than to average bear to comprehend everything, I was also listening to Suze Orman on a podcast, her callers giving a pile of numbers, asking her can I afford this or that.

Current figures indicate it takes some $226,000 per child to raise a child from birth to adulthood.  Do the math.

$226,000 X 39 =  right at NINE million dollars.  See?  Not possible on paper, but with God all things are possible.  Living beneath the federal poverty guidelines at all times, oh well.

Living sacrificially makes me feel good about myself, I don't need anyone's gratitude, this feeling comes from within and can't be taken away from me.

Frugality is my exercise.  I literally obsess over my spreadsheets and charts almost every single day., conjuring up possibilities to get us through the month.

Michael took my four oldest sons last night to move furniture, but the fellowship, the leadership example they get from him is nothing short of amazing.  They adore him and later found themselves where we can never afford to go, Five Guys, nor would I want to as I don't eat dead cows, but they all came home smiling happily, resuming the nightly game of Shoot-out.

Michael was asked if the boys were his there at the restaurant.  He's 28 for Pete's sake, if I was his wife, I'd have been insulted.  She's a stunningly beautiful woman with two young children, not four older teenagers.

Martin successfully completed summer school, now joining Allen at the Parks Department job.

"I know this sounds ghetto," one of my grown daughters told me over the phone, "but my baby's daddy is helping me out."

Deep sigh.

I'm just glad I suppose that she recognizes that she could be doing better.  I prefer that the thought come from within her, rather than from my mouth.

"Why do you talk to Dr. Mandy?" Jack asked me quizzically, positive I'm the smartest woman on earth since he's lived here his entire life and has watched me navigate some tough, tough challenges.

I explained that everyone needs counsel, advice, suggestions and perspective, that's the tact I take with my kids also when addressing their therapeutic needs.

Finishing up at dark last night, Jack, Tabby, Nando and Scotty all standing there watching me weed, they were pigging out on blueberries, strawberries, and blackberries, it's with no little amount of satisfaction that I look at my gardens.  I still see a ton of work to do, yet I've made mongo progress this past year.

And seriously, one spider plant will give a lifetime of new plants.

I stopped at a yard sale this morning when taking Allen and Martin to work.  Got a perfectly unused North Face book bag for pennies on the dollar.  A hundred dollar book bag.  Who on earth has a spare one hundred dollars for a book bag?  It blows my mind.  Do you know how many blueberry bushes that could buy instead?  I transplant the shoots each fall thus ending up with free blueberry plants.

As I weeded last night, I noted this forsythia plant out of the garden bed, in the path, begging to be transplanted so I obliged.  Bingo free forsythia.  I do this with roses also, making and rooting cuttings.

Life doesn't have to be expensive, one just needs to be willing to work at stuff.

Nando proudly got a bucketful of eggs from the chicken coop.

"Folks think we're rich," Lily told me, she of the Ed Hardy shirts and shoes - again pennies on the dollar.

Why am I emphasizing brand names here when I'm so not a fan of them?  Just to demonstrate how easy it is to own them if one so desires to do so, and Lily does, so here I am making her happy for pennies.  Lily's so creative that she can buy stuff and reconfigure it, thus making it uniquely hers.  She certainly has a particular style.

Allen wearing Lily's tiara and JoJo wearing Lily's tie. I have no explanation.

Unexamined

Oh Dear Lord, Thank you that I've never seen the Teen Mom TV show and don't know who those people are that are appearing with regularity in the newspapers.

Like there isn't enough drama already in our universe?

My teenager with social anxiety is doing surprisingly well in his five week job assignment via WIA.  Getting into my truck each afternoon, he's voluble about everything, telling me exactly what he did all day as well as everything spoken to him.  This is so not like him.  I'm grateful that he has this opportunity.

I picked him up yesterday afternoon and his emotional twin burst out of my vehicle, clad only in soccer shorts, squawking loudly, flapping his wings, tossing himself into the grass, rolling around, spazzing, and getting louder by the minute, our family clown.  I was convulsed with laughter, I just couldn't help myself.  This kid is way past hilarious into the Jim Carey School of Slapstick.

My 18 year old is struggling with finishing up in summer school.  Again, we have an excellent school system and he's receiving a great deal of help.  He's gonna need a lot more to finish up his senior year next year, getting out of high school at age 19 1/2 I hope.  He's a sweetie, if he's slow at school, it's just not the end of the world.

And a big ole ouch as the Yankees swept the Braves, late last night as Heyward came up to bat in the ninth with two outs and a runner on first, I sweated like I was ditch digging, knowing he could do this, but it was not to be.

My favorite brother-in-law, a lifelong Yankee fan for some reason, texted, "Whew," as I simultaneously texted, "Crap."

A hot, high humidity day in which I literally sweated, drenched actually, while working in the shade, a garden bed in the back of the house that's been low on my totem pole of priorities. I weeded and weeded, two days of it, and finally it's starting to resemble my original plans.  I called an old friend as I worked, checking on her health as she's been in a battle, I'm still praying for her.

A minimalist blogger spoke of her three years without a TV set, one of the best benefits was that she wasn't so stressed nowadays without a talking head bemoaning the end of the world as we know it, the media always doing a great job of giving us more to worry about than we ever thought possible.

Conversely I do like my TV.  I like my DVR that allows me to record shows thus skipping the lame ads.  I wanna watch Braves baseball and I wanna indulge in some escapists shows that allow me to forget the stress.  The new Dallas show was boring, I feel asleep.  Sarah and I are watching Design Star, ironic in that I have no design capabilities nor aspirations but I so admire what others can do.

I'll minimize in another area - like shoes.  It's my own personal belief that who cares what makes the outfit?  My outfits suck anyway.  Clothes are just to keep us from embarrassing ourselves.  Hermits wear rags and go bare feet.  Heels?  No, thank you. These are all I own.

Two pairs of brown shoes?  Why do I even bother keeping them?  Not worn in years, except maybe to a wedding.  Why do my flip flops appear so large?  Because they are.  They were in a clothing donation bag given to us.  The other two pairs of black shoes?  Grandma gave me one pair when I'd admired what she was wearing, the other pair is from back in my school employment days.  I've now been retired for more'n ten years.

My true shoe wearing only involves these:

Yes, Sarah, I know I need to color the white spot with a Sharpie.

An unexamined life isn't worth living, thank you Socrates.  Why did I think that was Thoreau?

Lily has about 30 pairs of shoes, Sabrina has twice that amount.  Shoes matter to them.  They don't have houseplants.  I allow my children to find what thrills them, not my own comically sub-standards of living.

We hermits wanna someday eliminate our garbage pickup, in that recycling, composting and pre-cycling (not buying anything) should be enough.  Digital music and books further reduces stuff.  Lord knows I wanna eliminate ever having to go inside a store, that's what motivates me to grow groceries.

The Overhang I wrote about yesterday?  I have no overhang at all except on a goal sheet, but I've raised 39 kids.  I use this as an example to my own kids, something for them to strive towards.

My houseplants however?  I'm not minimizing in that area, yet I have little to no money invested in my thousands of plants.  I've never bought a new planter, yard sales supply those for pennies, and I propagate most of my plants from seeds or cuttings.

Water Night didn't happen at church last night due to a scheduling conflict leaving Ray holding his water bazooka and dry towel for no reason, and Mae in tears.  Rescheduled in July, but that's a lifetime away for the kids.

I again got to attend the Wednesday night service, for many years I missed nearly every single one tending to raging kids with severe issues.  I'd be trying to calm down a teenager who wanted to hurt others for breathing.

I was deeply stressed out at the time, frantic with my safety concerns for the family.

Exactly Where, And How, Does It Go?

I used to lie in bed at night and wonder exactly how we were losing topsoil, as my gardens were my only frame of reference, and my rich, thick topsoil was being replenished each year due to copious amounts of compost, leaves, wood chips and manure.  I couldn't picture how topsoil got lost.  Where'd it go?

Then I'd wonder if other women fretted about dirt.  Tossing and turning, not ever hearing this discussed when I was with a bunch of women, I finally decided that they, like me, just must be keeping these thoughts to themselves?  Instead they discuss fashion, families, or frou-frou when out in public?

I'm clearly socially stunted.

I've spent at least the last 20 years so mind-numbingly busy that I've neglected several of my permaculture garden beds around the house.  Not so much in The Big Back Garden, as that's where we eat, but last night I worked around one of the original daylily gardens and was happy as a clam to note how rich the soil still appeared to be, thus sparking some well fed weeds, lemme tell ya.

Weeding calms my mind.  Sweating doesn't bother me, bugs generally don't bite me, and while the kids continued their long running game of Shoot-out, I weeded like a professional. Our 8 dogs nipping at their heels, having a blast running and barking.

Grandma ended the game when she brought over a dish of banana pudding.  By 'brought over' I mean from her kitchen to mine, our houses are both fully equipped, attached by a hallway at the back of my family room.

I stopped my work also to indulge in dessert.

I'd had a momentous moment.  No one is incarcerated right now, no one in jail or prison.

I'd had a long talk punctuated by a series of texts with one just released.  He'd left the state immediately last week, found his birth mom, and was rejecting her verbally to me which makes me uncomfortable.  "You need to respect her," I reminded him.

"Well you're the one who hung around to raise me," he said.  The irony that he'd returned to her should be expected.  My kids have about a thousand questions churning within them, a piece of them emotionally held hostage by the past.  I get it.

But to me the history itself doesn't matter, she deserves his respect as a woman.

I seriously doubt if any of the birth moms represented in my home were ever nurtured or treated properly, thus their later inability to function as a parent.  It's just sad, and hatred, or even anger, has no purpose for my children, they shouldn't let it hinder their own emotional growth.

I pray that my son meant what he said yesterday, that he's 'gonna go straight,' that he'll be able to be law abiding.  He has some significant mental health diagnoses that aren't gonna help.

Another son released from prison awhile back has had a very tough go of it.  I can't help them.  I can't make employers hire them, nor landlords rent to them.  There are some natural, yet challenging, consequences to what they'd done.  Yes, they paid their debt to society, but there are still long lasting, and supremely frustrating, aftereffects.

"I can't fix this," I've had to say too often over the phone. I just recite a litany of suggestions regarding their next steps. I'm afraid one of them is paralyzed by his own indecision.

They wouldn't listen to me at all back then, now they want me to fix it and I simply can't do so.  It's not humanly possible. They are adults, there are natural consequences to everything. I can only emotionally support them but if they return to a life of crime, even my emotional distance will have to expand further.

I say they didn't listen, yet I've had most of my grown children later tell me that they hear my words in their minds over and over again, like a built-in nagging tape recorder.  I suppose that's a good thing, right?

Overhang

Personal finance people talk a lot about the savings rate. In theory, the savings rate ought to be one simple number: how much am I saving compared to my income? In reality, it’s a lot more slippery: are we talking about pre-tax or after-tax income? Is debt repayment the same as savings? Should we distinguish between short- and long-term savings?

The size of your overhang is a measure of your ability to withstand a reduction in income. Reductions in income happen all the time, some by nasty surprise and some by choice.


I’ve borrowed this idea from one of my all-time favorite personal finance books, All Your Worth by Elizabeth Warren and Amelia Warren Tyagi. The key insight in their book is what they call the Balanced Money formula: from your take-home pay, 50% should go to necessities, 30% to wants, and 20% to savings


From The MintLife blog on personal finance, this is exactly the kind of graphic I use to explain a financial life to my kids.

But, and again I have a big but, I deeply believe that the tithe and savings should be included in the expenses category, thus creating a different overhang, a bigger safety net at the expense of one's wants.

I haven't read All Your Worth, that he recommended, I want to, and knowing the way my life has unfolded, I'll very likely find it for a quarter at the next yard sale.

My teenagers aren't about to read all these boring books, even my young adults and many of those that are in their 30s are now just too busy with kids, careers, and life to sit and read.

Therefore I'll read and extrapolate information for them.  I'll insist that everyone, at a bare minimum, read Dave Ramsey's books about money management and learn to tell oneself the word, "no," more times than not.

I'd also recommend Your Money or Your Life as a must read in order to best understand one's relationship with money.  Do you want things, or do you want freedom?

I have 39 kids to try and educate on money, not an easy task with severely oppositional behaviors, mental health issues, or a lack of trust in anyone for some of my kids.

What the best finance books have in common is an understanding that this is not nuclear physics but rather it is a behavior choice.  All of it boils down to behavior.

Reclusive Intelligence

Does my ankle look sprained?" I'm asked by a grown kid over the phone who'd sent me a photo from across many states.

"It looks swollen," I stated the obvious, "but Darling, I ain't got X-Ray specs on."

Some of my grown kids call often for advice or suggestions, some do not.  Some are in their initial yet comical I'm-grown-and-I-can-do-what-I-wanna-do stage where they won't listen to anything or anyone.  Some are in a cling, then lash-out mood, some are unpredictable, some are self-sabotaging, and the bottom line is that I still have been unable to get them to comprehend that I only want the very best for them.

The self-sabotaging behaviors have long perplexed this card carrying dorko.  My original caseworker had pointed it out to me decades ago when I was squalling my astonishment that anyone would screw up like that on purpose.

What's really happening when we sabotage ourselves? Subconsciously, we may be frightened by a particular outcome, even though we say we want it.



Those who self-sabotage may also be afraid of what others will think of them should they accomplish their goals. They might not believe they're worthy of the outcome, so they act in ways that will ensure their failure.


These destructive efforts are done subconsciously, so even the saboteurs have fooled themselves into thinking they know what they want. If there is any uncertainty in their mind, any doubt, any fear, they will find a way to make sure it doesn't happen.


Gobs of web pages discuss these confusing behaviors, yet another by-product of trauma.

My advice seems boring.  When I suggest one save money instead of rashly spending, or working rather than partying, I'm dismissed as an old-school square - not far off the mark certainly.

We've had an infinitely better week after a specifically selfish behavior had been addressed by Dr Mandy when talking with a teenager.  I once would've believed mission accomplished, nowadays I comprehend the cyclical nature of what we are dealing with each day, the ups and downs, happy wherever I see any progress, knowing it's spectacularly hard to come by in the world of trauma.

I have a grown son who gets himself to a mental health professional, only to call me hugely frustrated that the psychiatrist just blindly labels him as overly stressed, not understanding trauma at all.

I admire my son for seeking outside help on his own, I fully support him in this, yet I too share his frustration, and I also disagree with a medication that was prescribed and is making my son nuts, for lack of a better word.

"Well Honey," I stated, "He can't force you to take it.  You say he's soon gonna retire, either wait it out or find a local mental health provider that better understands you."

Thank God for the Internet, where I can help him seek out care, thank God that my son is seeking help.

I suggested he sign a release of information and have the guy call me, I'll be happy to articulate what my son cannot find the words for in his sessions.  He has always manifested some depression issues.

Three of my teenagers are working right now.  Yesterday I accompanied Sabrina to the bank, walking her through the process of depositing her paycheck into her account versus allowing her to toss it on my desk, thus making it my responsibility.

She's saving for a car, I've been helping her look at ads, teaching her about negotiation and reading between the lines, "You gotta be ready to walk away if they don't meet your price point," I explained, knowing a teenager's gonna really struggle with that concept.  But I want it will more likely be their response, clueless that there are hundreds of similar cars on the market.

I do not ever make any kid over 18 still living at home contribute to household bill paying.  That's my job, but I do then start giving over their cell phone bill, or clothes shopping, car insurance, and other personal bills to them, but only after they finish high school.   I'll keep them on my insurance policy or cell phone bill, knowing it's cheaper for them than getting their own.  But if they then balk at paying their share, they can call 1-800-Sky High Car Insurance.

And some of this is so normal as they find their identities, a normal rite of passage that is compounded by trauma issues.  I once thought my dad was a Power Bill Nazi, always reminding us fairly gifted kids to turn off the lights, don't stand there with the fridge door hanging open.  We dismissed him as out-of-touch, overly concerned about the electricity meter. Get a life Dad.

My own obsession involves the drought meter at the moment.

My kids' savings accounts are always custodial, as no minor can hold one on their own, but at age 18, no matter how well (or not) that they're behaving, I get my butt to the bank and remove my name from the account.  By then I've spent a billion hours explaining line-item budgets, appreciating versus depreciating assets, frugality, check book balancing, and everything else to often non-listening ears.

And, if and when they start rebelling mightily against my normal rules - like not inviting criminals over here - they can gather up their bills and accompanying resentment and go find an apartment.  Tell me later how The Real World treats you.

Usually by that point they're more'n ready to move out, positive that mom is an idiotic, sock monkey school marm who doesn't want anyone to have any fun.

Whatever.  I just want peace at that point and a normal life for the younger children still living here.

My now employed teen with severe social anxieties isn't taking a lunch with him to work, feeling too self-conscious about it.  If I'd have pushed the issue any more this morning I knew he'd shut down and not even go to his job so I had to let it go, allow him to be hungry at noon, hoping that'd teach him to carry his lunch tomorrow.

I'd spent a couple of quarters on Daniel Goleman's Social Intelligence, he who'd also written Emotional Intelligence and I'd heard his Primal Leadership series years ago, bought oh so cheaply at yard sales.

Miss Smarty Pants Sarah'd smirked at the very thought of me and the word social used in the same sentence.  There's no Reclusive Intelligence available for me to delve into now is there?

Ending with this photo, I think Nando took it as they posed.  Lily's two year younger yet so bonded and nurtured from birth, taking the social leadership role here, they've been in the same grade for many, many years along with the supremely entertaining and irrepressible JoJo, now they're all tenth graders.