To adopt, or not to adopt... What exactly is the question?

Hubby and I are faced with what will likely be the most important decision of our adult lives: Whether or not we should adopt the two babies we’ve been fostering since January and February. Today, the birth mom told the caseworker that she is considering surrendering her rights. We think she’s pregnant again, which is why we think she’s considering surrendering—if she gets social services out of her life, she has a better shot at keeping number three.

Reasons aside, how do you know if you’re making the right decision? Hubby wants to sit down and do a pros and cons list, and have a conversation about it. I know we need to, but when I think about making this decision, all I want to do is cry. And I don’t know what that means.

I’ve always been a “gimme a sign” kind of girl. We have known without a doubt that we were supposed to adopt every other time we have, and I’ve been praying and hoping for the same clear signs this time, but so far, nothing. And I don’t know what that means.

When I think about the future with these babies—as little kids, as pre-teens, as teenagers, as young adults—and I see three very different paths. I see them with their bio mom. I see them with us. And I see them with someone else—usually, in all honesty, someone who looks more like them than we do. People younger. People less jaded.

I think of how hard it’s been with Marie and Dawn and Danae and Leigh, and I wonder what impact that has had on the babies, what impact it would have on them in the future. I know Leigh is a horrible influence, and that Danae would be devastated if we don’t adopt. And I still can’t decide.

I think of their beautiful big brown eyes and their faces smiling into someone else’s face and calling someone else mom. And I cry. Then I think about getting to pick them up and take them fun places on weekends as grandparents and I don’t cry as much.

I think of all the time I spend with them, that I spend doing for them, and wonder what I did before, and what I would do after, if they leave. I think about their bio mom crying, looking at the photo album we gave her and her saying, “They look so happy.” And I wonder if them being adopted by someone else would ruin the happiness we’ve worked so hard to help them find.

Will they remember us five years down the road? Ten years? Twenty years? Or will we be there with them, at our own retirement ages, as they graduate and go to college. I can’t decide which picture has the stronger pull, and I don’t know what that means. Or if it means anything at all.

Sometimes, I think the fact that I’m even struggling with this decision is a sign. But a sign to keep them or let them go? Are we being selfish to want to keep them? I know there are hundreds of young couples who are where Hubby and I were ten years ago—eager and breathless and full of hope and anticipation, waiting for the phone call that is the beginning of labor pains for them. But then I wonder if maybe the dark road we’ve traveled with our four older girls has been a test, and the babies are the reward.

Are we being selfish to consider letting them go? I miss my husband, and the marriage we had before we had kids. I miss spending time with him without kids around, and we have reached the light at the end of the tunnel with the older ones, and we starting to plan on what to do with the extra space in our empty nest. Plus, with Leigh being so completely special, we need more time with her. But what impact will it have on the babies if they leave us for another family? What impact will it have on the four who are already ours?

And what does it mean that I can’t answer a single question I’ve posted here? And that I don’t know what any of it means? And that I’m crying as I type, with no clearer perspective?

And I still don’t know which one would hurt less.

Questions, Questions

I have lots of them today. Bear with me. Answer them if you can.  Offer humor if you can. 

1.  Am I unreasonable to expect my almost 16 year-old daughter to be responsible for her own laundry?  And to not let her go out in public with me if she is not clean and appropriately dressed?  This is Leigh we're talking about--  my RAD/OCD/PTSD/Depression/BPD child, who consistently has to be sprayed down before we go somewhere because she smells bad. 

2. Am I unreasonable to NOT allow my almost 17 year-old daughter share a bed behind closed doors with her girlfriend. (She's gay, so this is not a "just a friend," this a "we're dating" girlfriend.)  I'm opposed to any sort of spend-the-nights since they are in HS and I don't care if you're straight or gay, it is not appropriate to spend the night with the person you're dating.  My friend Katie, a lesbian, agrees with me, but she says she's so conservative she beats herself up in the parkinglot. 

3.  Am I unreasonable to expect my teenagers to complete basic housekeeping chores for the good of the family, even if they didn't personally make the mess in question?  My theory is that you ate the damn food that I worked to pay for AND cooked, you can clean up the kitchen. 

4.  And along those lines, if I ask you to do something, and you don't do it or half-ass it, I reserve the right to tell you no to something you want done, just on the backscratching principle.  Right?

5.  Is it wrong that we're still waffling about adopting the babies?  Is that a sign we shouldn't?  Or a sign that for the first time in our adult lives, we're looking at something long and hard before jumping in?

6.  Since Leigh has been off her meds, I have done a lot of thinking. Is it wrong that I plan to bully her into a birth control implant that she can't remove without pain and difficulty?  Is it wrong that I am starting to fantasize about spiking her food with Prozac?

7.  And am I wrong to be FURIOUS and HURT that bio-grandma called Danae's phone?  This is a violation of our agreement to move at our speed on bio-grandma's part; and for Danae, a violation of the promise she made to NOT give her cell number to her bio-family. 


That's all for now.  Thanks.

Weekly Wrap-up (sort of) July 11

I'm on vacation this week, and was able to leave a few days early, thanks to Hubby's successful juggling of the schedule, so here are some random tidbits from the week...

1.  Our caseworker was genuinely shocked that we wanted to take the babies with us on vacation.  Apparently, a great majority of foster families do not take their foster children on vacation with them when they go.  If you've read me for any length of time, you know what I think of THOSE people.

2.  We drove from 3 PM Wednesday to 6 PM Thursday.  We made it.  No one died.  Except the potato chips in the back seat.  From the crumbs left, I'm pretty sure it was a horrible death (that's where the teenagers were.)

3.  We're staying at my mom and step-dad's, near one of the Great Lakes. 

4.  That particular Great Lake is AMAZING to swim in.  Cold, but amazing.

5.  When you have a child (Danae) who will bait her own fishing hook, but will not take the fish off, what do you do?  And if you're the mom who refuses to do either, do you really have any moral ground to stand on?

6.  What do you call it when a fish whaps Leigh across the face as she's trying to remove it from the hook?  You got fish slapped!!

7.  Where we are, there just aren't many people other than the pale variety... a point that is driven home any time we go out in public.  My step-dad is oblivious to the stares, we're all used to them, but my mom was pretty shocked. She thought that poeple would look and then get on with life.  Eating out with us is an excercise in ignoring people gaping at our paleness and the dark cuteness that is our children. 

8.  Thank GodAllahBuddha for minivans, diet coke and laptop computers.

9.  Did you know a Bobble Head isn't just a cute, annoying little doll whose head moves back and forth?  It's now an insult of a type of person known for head bobbing behavior...  well hell. It's what you call people who give blow jobs.  Frequently. 

10.  Lesbian joke of the day:  My hubby and Danae were walking, and saw a boat for sale.  The boat's name is, I kid you not, the Hootchie Bobber.  Hubby told Danae she should buy it someday. She agreed, but that she'd have to change the name.  He said, "To what? The Cootchie Bobber?"  Oh yeah.  Gotta love my completely blunt kind of family.

11.  I'm supposed to meet up with an old HS buddy later this week.  I'm a little nervous--lots of reasons I guess, but the bottom line is that I'm not sure I want her kids to meet my teenagers.  It's that whole appropriateness thing--since I can't ever predict if they'll behave, I'm not sure I want them to go. At the same time, I want hubby to go, which means we take the babies, which doesn't bother me a bit.  They behave like they're supposed to.  The teens, not so much.

On my agenda this week...  more fishing. More swimming.  More hanging with Mom.  More attempting to convince MoMo that swimming is not evil.  More attempting to convince Danae that just because there are no black people here doesn't mean everyone around her doesn't like black people.  More attempting to convince Leigh to pull her $%^&* pants up because we DO NOT want to see her crack while she fishes. 

On the other hand, Hubby and I are on the same shift all week which is oh-so-wonderful.  I miss having him around. I hate second shift.

More later!

What a day, or why I have a lumpy forehead

From 4 PM until about 9:30, I had a really crappy day. At 4, we had a caseworker visit. This was our first of what are supposed to be monthly visits with our new caseworker. This is caseworker number 9 since January, and while we've never met in person, we've talked on the phone. She remembers me from Dawn's adoption, but I don't remember her. (And since January, she's only the second caseworker to do the home visit.) Caseworker visits are to make sure that A. the kids are alive and well. B. the home is reasonably safe. C. the home is reasonable clean and D. the chaos is at least contained. We chit-chat. It was going well. Then she asks to see the babies' room. We walk in, I yoink the cord to turn the light on, and the soccer ball-sized, thick glass globe from the light fixture falls off, bounces off my forehead, and lands in the laundry basket. While I'm holding NaNa. A friend of mine who dropped by, trying to be helpful said, "It knew you just finished the school year and that it was time to be dusted!" Yeah, that went well. There's an imprint of the globe's striped pattern on my forehead and a large lump. And it's 11:08 PM and I still have a headache. Ugh. So then, there was in-home therapy at 6:15 PM--our first home visit with our third therapist since October. Today, I asked Danae to keep the babies in her room, while I worked with the therapist and Leigh, since this is court ordered for Leigh. Five minutes into our session, my phone starts ringing. I kill the sound and ignore it. Then the house phone rings, so I kill the phone again. We're in therapy here, people! Stop calling. And the only people who would do that would be one of my children, my husband or my brother. It was Danae, calling from her bedroom. She wants me to bring her a drink. But I don't know this until she stomps into the kitchen, slings open the the fridge and grabs a drink, pausing only to say in that level of sarcasm that only teens can exude, "Thanks so much for answering the phone, Mom." We're. In. Therapy. DUH!! One does NOT answer the phone while in THERAPY! After the therapist leaves, I ask Danae what her malfunction is. Her: She'd only been there five minutes, and it's not therapy for you anyway. Besides, the baby could have been choking and died and you wouldn't know it because you didn't answer the phone. Me: I'm pretty sure you'd have been yelling. Her: Whatever mom. Wait! Is that a win for me? I think it is!!! YYYYYEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!!! Point for me! Lumpy forehead and all!!

Panel Review

Panel review was today. Definition: Group of citizens who volunteer to work along with a judge to evaluate placements and progress of kids and their bioparents in the foster care system. They also look at how the foster parents and foster families are holding up under the stress of fostering. Three people, bio-mom, the judge, two caseworkers, Hubby, the babies and my very observant Danae, sitting around a large conference table. Talking about progress. Or in this case, lack thereof. Mom says that she's finished rehab, but has no proof, and after the panel, tested positive for pot. She has a place to live-- in section 8 housing, illegally with a friend of a friend. When asked about a support system, and if the lady she is living with could be one, she replied, "I don't know her like that." She started looking for a job Friday. Five months after she lost her kids. One of the panel members asked her if she's dating. She said she has a boyfriend. The judge asked if she's sexually active. She said yes. On birth control? No. Do you want to have another baby? Not until I get my first two back. The judge very firmly told her she'd better not come back to panel review in October pregnant. The civil rights part of me wonders if that's even legal, but the practical foster mom side of me wonders if I could sneak up behind her and accidently give her a Depo shot. I'm moving my mark from "feels sorry for mom" to "what the hell?"

So much to write...

... so little time.

So I shall sum up, until I can have a nooner or a quickie with my laptop and start telling some of stories I have from the last week.

1. Met Danae and Leigh's bio mom and grandma. Damn. Explains a lot, lemme tell you. No really. Let. Me. Tell. You. (Sadly, it will have to be later.)

2. GGA was a complete bitch to her own kid and mine at graduation. She needs to be punched in a kidney or two. Or in the nose. Or shanked mightily.

3. MoMo was a hit at the Braves game. Too bad The Beach Boys weren't. They sucked.

4. The Beach Boys sucked because Brian Wilson was totally lip synching, that is, when the old fart bothered to even move his lips.

5. The Georgia Aquarium was way too busy, but it was cool as hell. I love me some penguins, belugie whales and otters. And manta rays. I do not, however, like $4 bottled beverages.

6. If you are fascinated by the slightly macabre, anatomy or just bodies in general, definitely check out the Bodies Exhibit. It was really interesting and far too educational to be of any overt interest to the teens, but they still liked it.

7. Prepaying to park at a professional sporting event is a waste of money.

8. One should always carry sunscreen.

9. The Bodies Exhibit showed me once again that MoMo is WAY smart-- she noticed right away that the body in front of her had different parts than her own. And she kept grabbing herself ala Madonna 1987, dancing and pointing at the shrunken penis on the first body we saw. Then pointing at herself. "Yes MoMo. Boys have different parts than girls." She stopped. Pointed at herself and the man. I said, "Yep. He has an outie. You have an innie. That's how boys and girls are different."

10. A popular comedian says that you can't fix stupid. I'd argue that one can also not fix mean, jealous, sneaky or drug-addled. But I could be wrong.

11. I don't like Zima, but DAMN. The one I had was awesome on Monday at the baseball game. It's amazing how much heat changes your tast in things.

12. Fleas suck.

13. So do abscessed armpits and yeast infections.

14. I lost my list of random things to blog about that I was making on our trip in the hotel. I hope I find it. It had some neat things on it.

15. GET OVER IT PEOPLE! HUBBY IS OVER SIX FEET TALL AND VERY PALE. OUR KIDS ARE NOT. Geesh. I feel better.

16. The worst thing about adoption is having to share your children.



I'll elaborate more later. Have lots to think about and be thankful for (Like my teeth. Again, more on that later).

Wish me sweet dreams. I haven't had much sleep. And I need it.

Gallows Humor

(I'm writing this in response to a minor windstorm over at Navigating the Maze. Partially in defense of Abba, and partially in my own defense because I know I have thought and uttered many of the same things.)

As a parent, I find that I laugh at strange things. As an adoptive parent, I laugh at even stranger things. As an adoptive parent with special needs kids, I laugh at some seriously weird shit.

As the kind of parent that I am, I find that my coping mechanisms may not always be socially acceptable. In fact, some of my coping mechanisms would completely horrify people who have not had the day-to-day stress and frustration of dealing with my family.

Don't get me wrong: I chose this path. I chose my children. Granted, I was lied to A LOT about my kids before they were mine, but even after the lies were uncovered, we kept them.

Our choice. Since starting to blog, I have found some other bloggers out there who have similar lives, with similar kids, and similar coping styles. I found other bloggers who have similar lives and kids, but very different ways of coping.

We are all humans. We are going to face out situations with the sum total of our past experiences. And the sum total of who we are and how we think is often on opposite ends of the spectrum from those around us.

But does that make us wrong? I read somewhere today that there are a million ways to raise kids correctly, and a few tried and true ways to royally screw them up.

That being said, how I do and don't cope is all about me. I don't expect everyone to get the fact that when my teenage daughter starts to be completely obnoxious in the Great Big Store That Sells Everything at All Hours that I burst into a loud, purposely horrifically off-key rendition of the Oscar Meyer Weiner song. Complete with dance moves. I'm a size 22, so me dancing and singing like I'm on Broadway gets attention. And it's not usually applause.

We joke about bodily functions way more than most people think is normal. We tease our children about things that other people may see as completely inappropriate-- Leigh's ridiculously smelly feet and bedroom. Danae's naive nature and newly announced taste in women. Dawn's ditziness and promiscuity. Other people wouldn't even discuss such things, let alone be okay with all of it. The fact that our babies clearly did not come from our loins is a constant source of entertainment and probably inappropriate jokes.

And I don't often talk about the crazy things I do in my head. But I will say this... the difference between people who abuse their kids and people who don't is CHOICE. I might choose to imagine punching my daughter's teeth down her throat, and yes, I have. But I don't. And honestly, it doesn't mean that I love her any less. I love her enough to NOT punch her.

I might choose to imagine driving to Social Services and dropping her off on the curb and driving away with the windows down drinking (read that as power-chugging) a margarita. But I don't.

I imagine testifying against her in court. I imagine her going completely boxcutter crazy and having to physically defend myself against her, but this time I turn the tables and beat her into a bloody pulp. (Notice that I said "this time." It's happened before.)

There are moments when I fantasize about packing a few changes of clothes and just driving away. There are moments when I wonder what would happen if I approached some of the kids I teach who I KNOW get baked during lunch and ask if I could join them to see what feels like. I have even had completely inappropriate thoughts about the young actor who plays Jacob in the Twilght series.

Fantasy, yes. Action, no. Everything is choice. I don't choose these paths for a variety of reasons. Mostly, I think they remain fantasy because I believe them to be fundamentally wrong, or I don't like some of the possible consequences.

Now, having brought this up, I guess it would be appropriate to look at the motivations behind blogging. Why do so many of us get on here anonymously and vent and spill our guts, but not use our real names and addresses?

We blog because there is something in us that compells us to write, that moves us to share. And the cool thing about this is that anyone who doesn't want to be apart of my little corner of the world doesn't have to stick around.

I hope you'll stay. I really do. I like thinking that what I say and think matters to someone, even if you don't know my real name. But if what I say and believe and the parenting path I'm hiking doesn't suit your tasts, there are plenty of bloggers on the menu.

No Shows

So at about 4:15 this afternoon, as I'm getting ready to have the hair color rinsed from my head, the day care calls to tell me that the caseworker never showed up to pick up the babies for BioMaMa visit today. I am upset by this. First, why is it that no one bothered to tell me until NOW that the babies--who were supposed to be picked up at 2 PM--were still there.

Second, what the heck is happening?

I never delete a phone number from my phone. If you call or text me, consider it saved. Forever.

That being said, I have saved several numbers of random caseworkers over the years. There are a very few caseworkers who answer their phones. Knowing who they are is helpful, especially because social services didn't spring for caller ID.

I called the first such one to find out who our caseworker du jour is. (The babies have had NINE since January. And her last day is next Friday.)

All foster homes are supposed to be assigned to a caseworker to monitor their "home." "Home" meaning certifications, placements, stipends, etc. I don't know the last time we had one of those.

Anyway, I called my go-to phone-answerer to find out who to talk to about the complete lack of communication today.

Her very honest answer is, "I don't know. We have so few people working here right now that no one really knows who's doing what." (Thanks to furlough days, crazy caseloads, low pay and a hiring freeze.)

So I called the assistant director.

She actually knew what was going on. BioMaMa has not checked in and no one could confirm that she'd be there, so they didn't pick up the babies. And then she didn't show up for the visit, so it was just as well. For them.

I had my wonderful former student/professional hair stylist, rinse me off and send me out the door with wet hair, so I could go get the babies, and still make the rest of the day. Hair Stylist was horrified that I had to leave unstyled, which is proof that teenagers do grow up, because I can't remember her ever finishing an assignment when she was my student. Everything takes longer with babies, so the rest of my day has bitten something smelly, and left me wondering.

I wonder what would have happened had I been across town at 6 PM as planned, when the day care called to find out why I hadn't picked them up?

Luckily, I was running late, and was still nearby. Since social services decided that we shouldn't drive them to and from visitation, I try to cram as much into that three hour block as possible.

Luckily, the day care director realized that the girls were still there and called me.

Luckily for all of them I was too tired to really get my grouch on.

(Side note--we offered to drive the babies to and from visits, but this didn't help justify someone's job so they told us they'd handle it. I know. I *know.* Don't get me started on another sidebar.)

Unconditionally Conditional Love

There are different kinds of love, and most of us endeavor to love deeply and healthily. We know that we are supposed to love without conditions, but I am here to admit that for most of us, unconditional love is an idyll, a myth we strive to attain, but often fall very short of. It is more a question that a condition. 

We claim, while in love, that it is unconditional, that there are no rules, nothing that will ruin or end the love we feel for the other person. Here, though, I’m not just talking about romantic love. For me, love is pretty much the same—you show it differently to different people, but it’s all about wanting what is best for the other person, and doing what we can to help them achieve their goals. Love isn’t feeling. It’s action.

But what if the person we are attempting to love thwarts us at every turn? Purposely makes it a daily, often minute-to-minute challenge? Frequently throws out challenges and tests to see how serious you are, how tenacious you can be with your emotional integrity? Or even does things to hurt you—intentionally—to see how elastic the sides of your metaphorical heart actually are?

This is the walk of the adoptive parent. At least the adoptive parent who has adopted older, what the industry calls “special needs,” kids. I have four adopted children and two foster children. (And just a note about that moniker: I only refer to them as adopted children here to separate them from the two fosterlings. In conversations, I just tell people I have four kids of my own, and two foster.) My adopted children all have done, and continue to do things, to push us away, to test the boundaries of our love and commitment to them.

Today, though, I want to talk about Dawn. We adopted Dawn when she was 12, after abuse from her birth mom, and a disrupted adoption due to more abuse. Clearly, we knew she was going to have issues. When we adopted her, the running joke was that I finally had a daughter because Leigh was so clearly a daddy’s girl. Dawn was outgoing and social while Steph is happy to bury her head at home with video games and books.

So when, at 16, Dawn overdosed at school, plead down the ensuing charges to a single felony and misdemeanor, dropped out of “alternative school” and then ran away with a complete loser, I took it harder than Hubby. When she eventually returned home, after a week in jail and stricter probation, things got better. Superficially, anyway. However, after months of swearing that she wanted to go back and finish school and that she was going to be patient and get prepared to be independent, the day she got off probation, she was gone again. In our state munchkins can leave at 17, but cannot be kicked out.

We didn’t hear from her for about a month, and at my last count, she and Dumbass Boyfriend have moved about 11 times since the end of January. When she finally talked to me, I told her that I loved her no matter what, and that if she wanted my help, all she needed to do was ask for it.

Last night, she asked. Someone dropped her off and she surfed my couch for the night. I don’t expect her to be here long, though. She told me this morning (I’m home sick today), that if I loved her, I’d let Dumbass Boyfriend and her shack up in a tent in the backyard until they saved up enough money to get an apartment of their own.

Because she loves him. And she doesn’t want to miss a minute of being with him because when he likely goes to prison sometime in the next six months for up to twenty years, she doesn’t know what she’ll do without him. Because if we really loved her we’d understand that she really loved him and we’d let them be together.

So now, my unconditional love, in the eyes of my 18 year old daughter, has conditions. That condition being that she be allowed to live in a tent in the backyard.

I know in her adolescent brain, she doesn’t see the complete lack of logic, good sense and maturity that makes her parents say, “No, you and your felonious Dumbass Boyfriend are not moving in together in our home with our other children.” (My actual words to her were much nicer than that, but you get the idea…)

I know she is attempting, through her tears, allergy-reddened nose and clearly sleep-deprived face, to manipulate us. After all, we did promise to help her out in her bid for independence. I guess maybe we should have defined, in writing and in triplicate forms, exactly what that help entails. But hindsight is always better than foresight, and if I am honest with myself, I’ve always known she was hard-headed and destined to only learn things the hard way. And, again with the honesty, I’m not even sure what help I am willing and able to provide.

But how do I explain to her that my love for her is unchanged? That my last thoughts each night are still of her, and that my first in the morning are of her, and that I check the county’s arrest website and the local newspaper each morning at work so that I can see if she’s still alive?

Does the fact that my help for her has conditions means that my love does too?  We have occasionally bought her groceries and medicine. I bought her some pants to wear to work. If she’s around, I’ll indulge her passion for Sonic’s cherry-grape slushes. But I’ve only seen her four times since she left at the beginning of January.

Hubby's and my parents have helped us a lot along the way, and I’m sure in that time, neither side thought their child’s mate was good enough. But still they helped. Granted, we stayed at home until we could support ourselves, and have not boomeranged. Nor have we asked to set up bum camp in the back yard.

Does our unwillingness to let him stay here mean that we have conditions on our love for her?  I don't think so, but how can I convince her of that?  How does one separate the love from the conditions by which we live our lives? How do you stand up for your beliefs and values, while attempting to convince your daughter that the kind of people she's hanging out with are not the kind of people to build a life with?

If I loved unconditionally would I allow Dumbass Boyfriend to stay here until they could get a place of their own? If I loved unconditionally would I pay for the first months’ rent on a cheap apartment and tell them they were responsible for the rest? (If for no other reason than to simply end the discussion?)

Or is it because I love unconditionally that I won’t let him stay in home, for fear of what it will teach my other children, or for fear of what he might bring into our home? What are the conditions of love? Of parenting?

And why the hell didn't anyone warn me about all this before I became a parent? 

Nevermind. They did. I just didn't listen.

Rough Draft... Peace

BIG SECRET----- Don't tell anyone, but I'd love to be a real writer who gets a real paycheck from writing.  I love poetry, and sometimes I write it, but I'm REALLY shy about sharing it...
<<< takes big deep breath >>>
So here goes....


Peace is the knowledge
That with what little you were given
You have climbed a fortress protected by
The sharp fragments of years of broken dreams
And the twisted barbs of biological families
And poured into the sieve of her heart
all the love and
faith and
laughter
you could find.

And your calloused, tired, bruised hands tried to plug the holes
Stop it all from running down the drain,
But you watch again and again and again as your efforts bleed down your
fingers onto your forearms.

Peace is knowing that some of those things will slowly
stick to the sides of her heart,
trapped on the very holes of the sieve you tried to plug.
Or caught on the patches of scar tissue left by those who didn’t truly love.
Peace is walking the shore at sunset, her picture in your hand, and facing the
Ocean, the wind, the coming storm, yourself and your God, and knowing
Beyond everything else,
That you did
As right as you could.

Shopping, Parenting and Racism

So there I was, standing in line at Hot Topic, patiently explaining to MoMo that she could get down and play after we left the store, when she hauled off and slapped me.  On the cheek.  Hard. On purpose. 

Up to that point, I didn't know toddlers did that.

Now, because MoMo is a foster child,  we can't use any physical discipline. At all.  So, I grabbed her hands, held them still, and told her, "Bad MoMo. No hitting. Bad girl."

The man in line in front of us turned around, glared at me, and said, "You can't talk to that baby like that!"

I was shocked. I've never jumped in on people and their kids, even when they desperately cried out for it.  And to have someone call me on it when I thought I was handling things pretty well shocked the shit out of me.

I responded, "Number one, not your concern. Number two, what do you want me to do, punch her?" And then I stared at him, daring me to say something else.

He got so flustered, he dropped his stuff on the counter, and stomped out of the store.

The clerk grinned. "Good for you!  I think you handled that just fine!"

Before I ask my questions, remember that I'm white and MoMo is a beautiful milk chocolate color.

Here are my questions:

1. Would the man have said anything if MoMo and I were the same race?
2. Would he have said anything if he and MoMo weren't both black?
3. Was he just being a general Mr. Buttinski, and I'm just being too sensitive?
4. Is the world really still that bassackward?

An introduction

So here I am. 
Waiting for inspiration.
Or like the kid on "The Incredibles" for something amazing.

In the meantime, let me introduce us. 

I am Mom.  Wife.  Teacher.  Unofficial social worker.  Unlicensed, smart-ass therapist.  Writer-wannabe. 

The other players in this silliness are as follows:

Hubby--Husband.  The tall bald guy, and a big cup of awesome sauce.

Marie-- Oldest daughter. Age 23.  Mother of Grandson. Married to JC. We never officially adopted her, because she aged out of foster care when her younger sister moved in with us. However, the only thing missing is the paperwork.

Dawn-- Next daughter. Age 18.  Bio sister to Marie.   We got her when she was 12, and she is currently surfing other people's sofas because mom and dad won't let her shack up at home with her Dumbass Boyfriend.  She just got a job as a waitress.  It's been two whole days and she's kept it, so we'll see how that goes.

Danae--Next daughter.  Age 16. Cheerleader, artist, wants to be a doctor.  Generally, a smart kid with a HUMONGOGINORMOUS attitude. But then, after 18 different placements, I think she's earned the right to be pissy from time to time.

Leigh-- Next daughter. Biosister to BB. Age 15.  We're her tenth set of parents, and we got her when she was six.  She is a self described freak, who cuts, cusses, and generally carries on as much as possible without visiting the Gray Bar Hotel.   She attends a "special school" for people who have problems behaving in regular school, has a probation officer and a standing appointment with juvenile court every three weeks. However, she too is very smart and a talented artist.

Momo-- 18 month old foster baby.  Cute as a baby penguin and about as coordinated. She has eyelashes that could start a small supermodel riot, and the most engaging smile I've ever seen.

NaNa- 9 week old foster baby.  Just learned how to smile this week. 

And in that mix of beauty, brains and general mayhem, we have two half-mexicans, two mostly black, one mutt of unknown origin and one who claims to be a quarter black. As for the parents, we're very white, and mostly look nothing like our kids.  We have fun with that sometimes.

Mixed in there also are several cases of Reactive Attachment Disorder, PTSD, a sprinkling of bipolar, the possibility of borderline personality and some galloping cases of depression, self-mutilation and anxiety.  Needless to say, life is never boring. 

So here we are ...  our little, made-from-scratch-trying-to-be-happy family. 

I think I've found my amazing. 
How about you?
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Some things I'll post here will be daily doses of the craziness that is my life. Others will be random stuff I've written in response to my life-- some old, some new. 

Enjoy the popcorn, prop up your feet.  It's an interesting show.