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.

A Funny at the Mall

We were at the indoor playground at the mall, MoMo was running around, and I was rocking NaNa in her car seat.  A precocious little girl with big blue eyes and dimples skipped up to me and said, "She doesn't go with you."

I smiled at her, and said, "Yes, she does."

Girl, looking at NaNa and then at me:  But she's black.

Me: Yes she is.  Do you know what adoption is?

Girl, looking puzzled: No.

Me:  When a mommy won't take care of her babies, and someone else does, they call that adoption. 

Girl: Oh. 

She skips off to the slide.  Convo over.

I told Blue Eyes' parents about our little conversation before we left.  They were really apologetic.  I assured them that I wasn't offended, but that I wanted to let them know in case the subject came up later.

Still makes me smile a little, even though we haven't adopted the babies, it was the easiest way I could think to explain it on the spur of the moment.

Firsts...

Today was a day of firsts, some great, some not so great.

We'll start with the happy stuff:  MoMo used the big girl potty, big girl toilet paper and said "Bye-bye peepee!" to her urine as it flushed away.  I've sat her on it several times prior to a bath to get her in the habit, but tonight, she asked without being prompted.  Actually, she was about to be unceremoniously plopped into the tub, skipping the time on the toilet, when she pulled away, went over to the toilet, patted the front of her diaper and pointed at the toilet. 

Also, today, NaNa, went from lying down to sitting up in order to reach for a toy...  all by herself! 

Hooray for the babies!!!

Now, the other first, not so great.  Dawn and Marie are visiting their birth family this week.  The woman they call grandma tried to help Dawn run away at one point, so my respect level for her is pretty much zero.  That, and when I confronted her about it, she started making stuff up about other members of my family.  She's not their grandma, but a neighbor who lived near them when they were kids.

Anyway, I got a text from Dawn today saying that as a welcome home gift, her family had paid for her to get a monroe and her first tattoo.  (A Monroe is a piercing above the lip to look like Marilyn Monroe's famous mole.)  The tattoo is an algae green hibiscus flower down near her hoo-hah.  Yay for us.  Part of what irks me about this is that she texted me yesterday, wanting Hubby and me to pay a deposit on an apartment. Again. 

HAHAHAHAHA.  I ignored that text, choosing to follow my new rule of life: Be nice.

Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop!! (Prompt # 2:  Write a poem about the last thing that made you mad.)


What makes me mad tonight
is the sudden truth
that no matter how
much
I
love my
daughters,
their birth moms
will always be
first.

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Conundrama--Puzzles and Problems

So I thought I did something that would be totally mom-amazing.  I scraped together enough cash to rent a beach house for a week near where my brother and best friend live.  On the beach.  Pool right by our building.  Two bathrooms. Did I mention that it's on the beach?  And near my brother who I see about once a year??

Yay me, right? 

Not so much.

Danae announced, "Well if it means that I'll miss PRIDE, I'm not going." 

PRIDE, for those of you who don't know, is a day long festival for the GLBT community.  There are booths, and food, and shows, and lots of gay people running amok and generally enjoying themselves.  And for those of you new to my world, Danae was bullied into coming out came out recently. 

I get that PRIDE is important.  Believe me, I do.  But I'm having a hard time reconciling that with the whole "I don't know these people, why are you making me spend time with them?" Which is what she said when she realized that I was serious about making her come with the family to visit my mom for two weeks. 

What's funny is that PRIDE isn't until the fall...  way past our beach trip.  And she's still arguing because she doesn't want to go. Unless we let her girlfriend come with us, which I told her a while back, before I set the date, that I was considering.

Am I wrong to try to force her into getting to know my family?  Am I wrong to just say "this is how we do it in our family" and expect her to shut up and cope with it?  Or do I just resign myself to being another stop on the tour? 

Condundrums and drama. It's what we're good at. 

Any ideas? Thoughts? Anything to make me feel better about this whole thing called older child adoption??

Tonight's Crazy Train, Part 1

WARNING: This post will not be lovey-dovey. Nor will it contain language you’d be comfortable saying around a pastor or your great aunt Tillie. Unless she hangs around angry, drunk sailors. I’m not drunk, but I wish I was. And I am very, very angry.


Tonight, Hubby and I were supposed to go to a concert together. I won the tickets, Dawn was supposed to babysit, and Leigh and Danae were supposed to help with the babies, so Hubby and I could have a date.

Yeah.

Clearly, if I’m blogging, it didn’t happen. Fuck. I wish I had a time machine.

It started at about 3 PM with Dawn trying to bail so she could go to the movies with Marie. I complained, she realized that you don’t bail on parents when they’re asking for your help to go to a free concert of a top 40 band without their kids.

Then, as we’re leaving, Leigh asks us to unlock the TV. Unlocking the TV means giving them complete access to cable TV and all its variegated glory. No.

We’re pulling out of the driveway, and Danae comes sprinting out of the house, complaining that Leigh called her a fucking bitch and won’t give her the remote so they can turn the TV off. I told her that Leigh had every right to watch TV and to leave her alone.

We’re driving down the street, as I call the house phone. Leigh answers. “What?” Loudly and rudely.
“Since I pay for that phone, you will follow my phone rules. I’m hanging up now, and when I call back, follow them.”

I counted to 20. Dialed. Better answer.

As I’m talking to Leigh about what lead to her sister being a fucking bitch, I hear Danae yelling, “You’re the fucking bitch! Give me the goddamn remote!”

Leigh’s response, “No! Quit being so bossy!” I hear muffled scrapes and grunts, and then Leigh wailing, Dawn trying to separate them. I tell Hubby to turn around. We go home to find Leigh in her room sobbing, Danae cranking up the stereo and Dawn straightening the furniture.

Danae and Leigh had gotten into a fucking FISTFIGHT over the remote. I told Danae to go to her room. She then had the complete lack of sense to argue with me and tell me that it was no wonder Leigh had such fucking problems.

Really? Because for the last nine years, I didn’t know why Leigh was so fucking crazy, because it’s been just SO MUCH fun living with her. Leigh has nothing to take away, so her being in her room is her punishment. I go to Danae’s room and tell her to give me her phone. She told me no, that it’s hers. Okay fine. You paid for half. I’m not going to wrestle. I’ll just turn the damn thing off. If I don’t get to have fun tonight, no one does. I said that out loud as I was walking away. “That’s part of Leigh’s problem, you’re so fucking selfish!”

I go to the living room, call the phone company, shut her phone off, and start cleaning. It was either clean or hurt someone, and I try at all costs to avoid violence. (Keep reading. There’s more of that.)

While I’m on the phone with the phone company, Danae comes out and asks if she can talk to me outside. I said, “I need some time to calm down. Give me a little longer.” She stomps off, “Well at least I can say I tried.”

In my “not my proudest mommy moment”, I called after her, “I didn’t tell you to fuck off! I told you to give me a little bit of time!” As I was saying this, the operator came back on, and we had a very awkward parting conversation.

Two minutes later, Danae storms into the living room. “DID YOU REALLY SHUT OFF MY PHONE?” yes. OHMYGOD THAT’S THE ONLY THING I CARE ABOUT SO YOU TAKE IT AWAY NO MATTER NO ONE WANTS TO LIVE HERE.She stomps to her room. I follow. i’m sorry you feel that way. Is there somewhere else you’d like to be? ANYWHERE BUT HERE! fine. I’ll help you pack.

She spins around and finds me in the doorway, and tries to move me using the door. I told her that it would be a very good idea for her to take two steps backward because going toe to toe with me was not a smart choice. She leaned in and started yelling in my face that we were stupid, that we never punish leigh, that we can’t control her, and generally going over all of our parenting failures. I turned around and walked away.

Why did I walk away?

It was either that, or I was going to hit her. Not just push her backward. I wanted to punch. Fingers curled in, nails digging into my palms, thumbs crossed over my fingers, pointer and middle fingers held as a flat surface… I wanted to punch. I know how to. I've taken karate, but I wasn't passionate about it enough to stick with it.

I joke about wanting to punch people a lot. But I have never actually done it. In my head, though, I could see my fist connecting with her face, and knew I had to turn away.

She slammed and locked her door. I went to clean some more. As I cleaned, I came to this conclusion: As parents, we cannot control our children. All we can do is distract them if they’re young, and guide them as they grow.

And in Danae’s case, she LOVES control. She wants to be the boss. Always. And if she’s not, she gets mean about it.

I went to her room, tried the handle, knocked. When she opened it, I told her that there was no reason to lock her door. I asked her if she was ready to talk, and she rolled over on her bed. Okay, fine, I said. But here’s something you need to think about: ….. then I told her what my conclusion was.

She lit into me. She’s tired of Leigh always getting to do what she wants. She’s tired of never getting to do what she wants. She hates that her stress caused her to fail her classes and lose the one thing she’s always loved: school. She’s tired of me and Hubby not doing anything with Leigh and her behavior.

And I lost it. Nine years of frustrated parenting came spilling out. Among other things I told her are the following (and we were standing outside Leigh’s door, and since I was yelling at the top of my lungs I’m sure the people on the next block heard everything):

I tried this in all caps to emphasize that it was all at the top of my lungs, but it was too hard to read. So I put in reminders....

1. We have tried everything we know to do. Therapy, counseling, meds, absolute control, spankings, more therapy, threats of jail. Everything.


2. And when those didn’t work, we called caseworkers and experts and we were told to hospitalize her. We can’t because she’s not homicidal or suicidal.

3. And when we asked caseworkers for help, we were told to give her back, that we’d done all we could, that they’d put her in a group home and we could get on with our lives.

4. And when we asked the probation officers and the court to lock her up, we were told THAT her crimes (a broken razor blade used for cutting at school and one pot-smoking incident) weren’t enough to lock her up.

5. (and I’m still yelling) And when we adopted Dawn, and then again you(Danae), people told us we were stupid, fucking crazy, out of our minds and out right dumb. And those same people, when they have seen the issues you guys have, they have told us to take your asses back to social services and give you back.

6. (still yelling) but we didn’t. Because real families don’t ever give up on their kids. No matter how crazy, no matter how fucked up, no matter how mean, controlling, bitchy, scary, or just plain bad.

7. And you know why i walked away from you earlier? It’s because I wanted to hit you, but I walked away because I’m not that kind of person. I’ve never hit Leigh or Dawn in anger, and I’ve only actually “hit” dawn in self-defense. Do you have any idea what kind of self control it has taken for nine years not to beat the living shit out of you guys? You drive me batshit crazy and I swallow it and hold it back because I know it won’t do any good.

8. And I’m 38 years old and all I’ve ever really wanted to be was a mom and I fucking suck at it, which is one of the reasons we don’t think we want to keep the babies because if you look at our track record we fucking suck at being parents and we don’t want to set these babies up for failure because they deserve better than this. (Still yelling, now gesticulating like the crazed ranting Italian mama I am.)

9. So Danae, if you think you’re frustrated at being in this family, imagine how it feels to be us, knowing there’s not a fucking thing we can do to make it better. (Done yelling.)

At that point I turned around, and went in my room, and put my head into my pillow and cried. I didn’t lock my door, but I did slam the hell out of it.

Odd How We Measure Progress

Once upon a time, 2002 to be exact, our daughter Leigh was crazy. She still is but in different ways, or in differently manifested ways. Here's a look at past and present, in order to measure progress: Then, we had to take all her furniture, including her mattress out of her room. (She had a blanket and a pillow.) This because everything became objects to use to hurt us with, or had been destroyed. I didn't know a seven year old could dismantle a dresser, and by dismantle, I mean destroy. All drawers in pieces, the frame literally shredded. In just a day. Now, she has furniture. It's grubby, but it's there and functional. And she's had it for more than a year. Then, we had to board over her windows and closet door. This because she was trying to punch her way through the glass of the windows, and had climbed to the top shelf of her closet and was playing with the light bulb socket. She had also ripped out the chair rails out of the walls with her bare hands and was using them to beat holes in the drywall, and we were afraid she'd do the same to the windows or the wall of her closet...behind which lie the plumbing to our home's only bathroom. Now, she has windows and a closet. The windows are bolted shut and the closet has no door, but it does have *some* clothing hanging appropriately in it. Then, she had no toys in her room because: A.) She'd destroyed most of them. B.) She'd use them to throw at us C.) She'd use them to destroy other things D.) She used them for a form of stress relief that starts with M and rhymes with perturbation. E.) All of the above. The answer is E. Now, she has some "stuff." A few books. A beat up stereo. Lots of pens, pencils and paper. Makeup and perfume. Lotions. A few decorations picked up at yard sales and Goodwill. Still beaten pretty hard, but most of it used appropriately. Then, she'd rage for hours until she passed out from exhaustion. Now, she just sleeps or eats when she's bothered or upset. Then, she'd pee, poop and vomit in her room ON PURPOSE and hide it. (Nasty story: The worst was when she managed to shove some under her boarded up closet door. We couldn't find the smell for weeks. It was gross. Just gross.) Now, she only has what we euphemistically call "hygeine issues." (Based on her refusal to make friends with this stuff we call "soap" at our house. However, this summer on Mom Bootcamp, we are addressing them. Then we had attachment therapy, play therapy, bi-weekly lunch sessions with a school counseling, a therapist, lots of family friends, a psychiatrist and meds. Now, we have two probation officers, in home and at school therapy, special school placement, a psychiatrist and meds. Very few family friends have survived our adoption, but the ones we have we know are the real deal. Then, she'd eat things she found on the sidewalk, attempt to smoke dropped cigarette butts off the street, and sampled drywall, carpet, rocks and most of her toys. Now, she eats any food she can find, and smokes anything she can find. Then, we attended church, and thought we had a good support system. Then, we also thought we had a good grasp on what we needed to do as parents. Now, we don't go to church, because having that support system means having to tell too many people too many stories and being judged way too much. Then, she had no friends. Now, she has no friends. ____________________________________ It's a really strange concept for normal families to grasp that an appropriate goal for an adopted child with issues could be "Leigh will not use her bedroom for a toilet in anger." For an adoptive family of a kid with issues, it's just another day at home. It's name is RAD, or mental illness, or, as one therapist explained it 'holes in her heart.' Either way, it's no fun, and all you can do is hope that, in the end, the progress you've seen is worth it. ___________________________________________ Inspired by today's post at This Work Stinks... Hang in there Mom! You're doing a great job!

What would it take to forgive you?--Writer's Workshop

OF the three Writer's Workshop prompts I tackled this week, this was the hardest. Probably because thinking about my dad makes me cry, and thinking about forgiving others makes us examine ourselves. Thanks MamaKat, for asking me, "What would it take? Write an imaginary scene where someone you are still angry with finally deserves to be forgiven." It's not a scene really, as much as it is a stream-of-consciousness view of my brain at work. What Would it Take to Finally Forgive You? __________________________________________ What would it take to finally forgive you? First, I’d have to forgive my body. My ovaries and fallopian tubes and endocrine system. And scar tissue. I’d have to forgive biology and chemistry and obstetrics and gynecology and And endometrial biopsies. And genetics. And probably God. Then I’d have to forgive a whole series of birth parents. And their extended families. And their dealers and pimps and boyfriends and girlfriends and acquaintances. And the few might-be-decent-had-they-not-stood-by-and-watched aunts. Social workers who tried. And the ones who lied. And the ones who didn’t care enough to do either. Before I could forgive you, I’d have to forgive my cousin’s wife who said she’d rather be childless than chance the drama we have. And the boss who told me my daughter would have to learn that we couldn’t always be there for her. And the shrink who told us she’d always needs meds. And the other one who falsely gave us hope. I’d have to forgive the tiny voice in my head for Not being loud enough when she screamed NO NO NO NO NO! at me at the top of her tiny lungs when we decided to give it another try and add to our family. She really should have at least tried to yell louder. Every time we tried again, she could have tried to find better ways to get my attention. That little voice’s failure will be hard to forgive. And before I could forgive you, I’d have to forgive your parents, for the ideas they planted in your head. And that would mean forgiving your siblings— the halves and the wholes. It would mean letting go of the subtle snubs about real grandkids. And I’d have to forgive her. Your wife. The one who wouldn’t and didn’t invite us to your wedding. The one who stood back and didn’t push you to tell us you’d married until months after, and only because I asked about the picture of you in a tie. I’d have to forgive her for not being grandma to my (adopted) daughters. And that’s all I really wanted from her. No it’s not. That’s not true. I really wanted her to just give me a chance and not see me as competition. But before I could forgive anyone or anything or you for being you, and her for being her, I’d have to forgive me for being me. It was me, after all, who walked away. I said goodbye. I told you that you knew where I lived. And told you that I wouldn’t play the same game you and Mom (pre-divorce) did with your parents and step-parents. That me and my kids, and you and your wife were a package deal. An all or nothing commitment. And you let me walk away. But I’d have to forgive myself for doing the walking. I don’t know if there is enough forgiveness for that. But I’m lying. And putting off the real honesty, which is this cold, hard truth: All it would take for me To forgive you Is for you to knock on my door and ask, “How’re my granddaughters?”

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.

Why you do the things you do? (very, very long...)

I’ve heard it called many things—Crusader Complex, Bleeding Heart, Sucker, Stupid, Trying to Save The World, A Wonderful Thing, a Blessing, Crazy.

And they are all true. All of those describe what people have said to me about my family, and our adoption and fostering. “It takes special people.” Oh yes, very special. “I could never do what you’re doing.” Yes you could. You’ve just chosen a different path. Hope it works for you. “You are such a blessing.” Maybe, but mostly, I feel cursed. “You must be so patient.” You have noooooo idea, babe. “Is it hard?” So many metaphors, so little time. “What do your real children think?” Um, since I gave up Glen, my pretend friend, in third grade, I haven’t really dealt with not-real people.

I’ve been following with interest the traffic jam that has become the life and times of the wonderful moms at Navigating the Maze: Adoptive Parenting and Life for about two weeks now. They are on a path very similar to mine, and are having many of the same problems we have had and are continuing to have. The day-to-day trudge that is the life of a RADmom is one that so few people can understand and relate to, that I felt both relieved and guilty that I was glad to find so much kinship among bloggers with horrible kids.

I say horrible kids, and some of you out there might think less of me. Oh well. I really don’t care. You probably haven’t walked the path we have in the last nine years. And unless you have, you can’t judge us.

My husband and I have horrible kids. Our first one is Leigh.

Leigh has been psychiatrically hospitalized three times. The first time in kindergarten, the second time in first grade, and the third time at the end of 8th grade. We’ve been trying unsuccessfully to have her admitted long term for a year now. If she isn’t actively suicidal or homicidal, no one will admit her because of the cost of long term psychiatric treatment. And that’s with TWO complete coverage plans. In the past nine years, we have:

1. Been bitten, spit on, puked on (intentionally and repeatedly), had things thrown at us, and had our hair pulled out.

2. We’ve been every horrible thing you can think of from a bad prison gang—all from a very cute little girl.

3. She ripped the chair rails out of her wall when she was 6 and tore out drywall down to the studs.

4. We had to board up her windows—she tried to punch through the windows after we bolted them shut.

5. For about three years, it took both my husband and me to hold her while she freaked out and raged.

6. We had to board up her closet—she kept climbing up onto the top shelf and attempting to dismantle the light fixtures, and throwing things at us.

7. After we boarded up her closet, we had to un-board it several times to get the shit out of it that she crammed under the door.

8. We had to rip the carpet up and throw it out. Use your imagination. Yes. And that too.

9. We had to reverse the door knob so she couldn’t lock us out.

10. We had to take down and pack away up most of our antiques and family pictures after she started systematically breaking and destroying them.

11. She has destroyed EVERYTHING we have ever bought her (toys, furniture, bedding, clothing, bicycles, books, school supplies, etc)… except her ipod. That she loves. Headphones, however, are fair game.

12. She ruins new clothes intentionally. And wears dirty stuff continuously because she refuses to wash her clothes.

13. She’s been a cutter since she was six, and is on probation for having blades at school and showing another kid how to cut himself.

14. She has run away on three different occasions, and that doesn’t count the times she has just disappeared to attempt to hang out with people in the neighborhood, or gotten off the bus and taken off for a few hours.

15. She steals from everyone in the family, including her sisters, parents and grandparents.

16. In the past two years, she has had SIX xrays on her right hand because she punches wall so hard her knuckles swell up, turn purple, and look horrible. And because I hate how people look at me when I don’t take her to the doctor for the obvious answer, “No, it’s not broken, and you really shouldn’t punch walls” I take her for xrays.

17. She once tried to set the house on fire… toilet paper and matches on the bathroom floor.

18. If she gets a bug bite, it turns into an infected, oozing mess because she refuses to wash and continuously picks at it.

That mom from Tennessee who sent her adoptive son back to Russia? I don’t approve of her methods, but I have stood at that breaking point and asked myself if being a mom is really worth it. The longest, hardest conversation my husband and I ever had was about whether or not we were going back to the hospital to pick up our daughter and bring her back home. There but for the grace of GodAllahBuddha….

We did go back and get her. Twice. And honestly, it was not because of a deep emotional attachment, or an unbreakable mother-daughter bond. It was because a very nice social worker convinced us that if we didn’t, Leigh didn’t have any more chances.

I’m not sharing this for sympathy-- I’ve learned that sympathy is for wimps. It is completely useless. It does nothing but make the offerers feel better about their own lives, and the receivers feel worse about their own.

You want to help a RADmom? Offer to babysit—knowing that the kid is crazy, no matter how cute and harmless she looks. She'll probably be really nice to you.

Offer to order pizza one night for that mom who, after working AND dealing with the horrible child, is just too freaking tired to cook.

Offer a non-judgmental hug.

Offer to come sit at her house with her and put up with the bullshit going on there because in reality, raising kids is not forever. The kid will eventually leave or get locked up, and the parents will be left to look around the trailer park and wonder where the tornado went. And at that moment, they will need friends more than they ever had before.

I’m not sharing this to earn cool points, either. I gave up on being cool a LONG time ago. Right about the time I had to apologize to another parent for Leigh's treatment of her child. Right about the time I called the police on my 7 year-old daughter for stealing from us. Right about the time I had to teach my middle school aged kids how to use condoms because they were already having sex. Right about the time I had to apologize to my mom, a week after her hysterectomy, after Leigh head-butted her abdomen. (And yes, she knew about the surgery, mom had shown her the stitches.)  To my mom's credit, Leigh is not dead.

What Eema and Abba are going through is part of what a silent majority of adoptive parents experience, but we don’t tend to go public with our battles. Maybe we should. Maybe people need to know what our lives are like behind the closed doors and drawn blinds. But we don’t talk about how hard it is. How exhausting and draining, and how much it strains the relationships we have with people we care about.

In my case, I haven’t gone public for lots of reasons. I never wanted Leigh to be able to say we hadn’t done everything in our power to help her “get better.” I never wanted people to look at her any weirder than they already do. I have always held on to a sliver of hope that one day, Leigh will wake up and be “normal.” And honestly, I hadn’t NEEDED to go public until recently. And for now, my little anonymous blog is all the public I’ll go.

I’m sharing this peephole-glimpse into ONE of my daughters because Fosterabba is right—Love ISNT enough for these kids. And after adopting three, I am almost convinced that NOTHING will ever be enough for them.

Think about what follows here, and bear with my very blunt assessment. These kids come from crap. Absolutely the lowest crap on the crap scale. Abuse. Neglect. Drugs. Alcohol. Violence. Lack of supervision. Untreated mental illness. Generations of poverty and ignorance and incest.

Most people don’t know exactly what it takes to have a child taken away from their birth family permanently. It’s a lot. Abuse like the parent has been pimping out the child in exchange for drugs. Abuse like letting your kids drink and do drugs because it conks them out so you can party. Or punishing them with hot water, cigarette burns, being locked in small spaces (closets or bathrooms) for hours. Or days. Or being locked outside over night in their underwear. Neglect like a baby who hasn’t been bathed in two weeks, or bottles that have never seen hot, soapy water. Or toddlers left in a crib all day while the mama goes out to party. (all true stories, btw, from my kids, or those of other adoptive parents I know.)

And for the kids, this is normal. That is the way everyone lives because IT IS ALL THEY HAVE SEEN.

Then suddenly, they’re taken by people with good intentions who make them live with other people with good intentions, who don’t do any of the things that they think are normal. So they think the new people are the weirdos. Not them.

My husband asked me a few weeks ago which of our kids was MOST likely to take care of us in our old age. That gave me a very long, very depressing pause, and gave me even more motivation to work our debt snowball and save like crazy. My answer was that I didn’t have one. I can’t see any of our kids either caring enough about us to care for us in our dotage, or being able to, financially or physically.

So the question becomes, why? Why do seemingly ordinary people go to such extraordinary measures to become parents? To keep their crazy children?

For me, I’ve never wanted anything more than I wanted to be a mom. When I couldn’t get pregnant, I really and truly wished I were dead. Or would be stricken with some horrible disease that would either kill me, or be bad enough that I could blame infertility on it, and not on my own rotten plumbing and genetics. We stopped infertility treatments before surgery and meds because we came this conclusion: Did we really want to work so hard to pass along our completely screwed up genetics? Seemed kind of mean when we looked at it like that.

I have never quit anything in my life, or let something I wanted to achieve pass by because it was too hard. I have sort of put parenting my children in that same category. I haven’t given up because I just don’t do that. However, hubby and I have begun a countdown and a to-do list for when the last crazy child leaves the house. It’s helped keep us sane lately.

I tell people all the time that I don’t regret anything about how our family has turned out. But if I’m really honest, in that dark little corner of my heart, I know I’m lying.

I regret that my career has been tanked by Leigh and Dawn. I regret not having been able to get my doctorate because I couldn’t leave our teenagers at home alone for a few hours once a week. I regret all the money we’ve wasted on therapy that hasn’t worked and replacing clothing and furniture and bedding. (For Leigh, we have purchased an average of two new mattresses a year since we got her. Again, use your imagination. Yes, that. And that. I know. Gross.)

So I’m writing this tonight, and wiping the tears off my face, wishing I could hug Abba and Eema because they are so much more honest with themselves and other people than I am. And I know how they feel about Danielle, because I feel the same way about Leigh and Dawn.

Writer's Workshop: Ten Things I've Unlearned

10 rules I've unlearned

(meaning 10 things you thought were expected of you or

were the “right way” of doing things, but that you now ignore).

1. I do NOT have to use the same laundry soap my mom does. Or dish soap. Or bath soap. Or anything.

2. I thought I had to bully my children to attend, be successful at and finish college. Now, I’ll just be happy if one of them graduates high school. Seriously.

3. My children do not need to look like me or come from me for me to love them. In fact, it’s kind of more fun when they don’t because of the endless opportunities it provides to generally mess with strangers.

4. There is actually more than one way to fold a bath towel. (I love you mom, and I’m sorry this list seems to have so many jabs at you. I guess it’s a good thing you don’t know I’m doing this or you might kill me for talking about you in public. But let’s face facts: My children, thanks to your well-planted neuroses, refuse to fold towels because they know I’m going to flip out it they aren’t done like yours.)
5. Big brick house with too much space + two crazy car payments = unhappiness.
    Cattywampus half-century old house + two paid-for beaters = happy contentment.

6. Keeping up with the Jones’ is only good for making one out of breath with leg cramps. Who likes to run anyway? Crazy people, that’s who. And I have enough of them in my life.

7. I can love my children and be proud of them even if they are as nutty as overpriced health food bread and crazier than Oprah at a free chocolate give away. And even if they have probation officers and three different therapists. And go to special schools. And generally make life NOT boring.

8. I do not have to have a credit card to survive… Thank you Dave Ramsey for showing me the light that is financial independence!

9. I don’t have to make a living at writing to be happy. I just need to write.

10. Just because I’m fat does NOT mean I should stay home from the pool. Yep, I’m rockin’ the flab in a swimsuit! Avert your eyes or stare at my chubby glory. I don’t care. I love the ocean, I love to swim, and you swimsuit models will not keep me from my joy. Go eat some pizza and you can join me.

11. (Just because I like to be different.)  I can believe in God and have faith in that belief and NOT have to be a Church Person.  I have found that the Church People I generally meet are more into Church than Faith. 

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.

Crazy Lying and Epiphanies

Tonight was a verbal slugfest, a bout of epic proportions, between 16 year-old Danae and The Mom, AKA me. 

The topic(s): 

1. Why, dear, dear, Danae, have you been lying about staying for tutorial? 
2. And where oh where have you been going after school? 
3. And with whom and for what purpose........ for the past two weeks?
4. And for GodAllahBuddha's sake, why would you do that to us knowing that we have to drag the babies out and across town to pick you up? 
5. And, why would you NOT take the bus home today, after clearly being told to, and then lie about how you got home? 

Now, I know she did not take the bus home because I waited for it to arrive, saw that she was not on it, and proceeded to take her sisters shopping and out to dinner. 

To the casual reader, dinner and shopping might seem like a callous response to a possible runaway-missing persons type situation involving one's own child.  However, I have some experience in these matters and realize that getting all wound up does nothing but give me a headache and turn my face red.  Plus, I have two other adopted kids who have run away for a combined total of six times, and, as a Homo Sapiens Sapiens, I can be taught. Eventually.

So Danae finally called my cell from the house phone at 6:28 and tried to convince me that she had indeed ridden the bus home.  Her bus arrives in our neighborhood between 4:55 and 5:10.  I told her to reconsider her story and go with the truth, as she would be in less trouble in the long run. (Sidebar, your honor:  I never believed that argument from my mom when I was a teen, so I'm not sure why I keep trying to convince my kids of its veracity, but that's a whole other blog I guess, sometime when I have no fodder... Things We Do Because Our Parents Did Them.  Remind me to write that....)

Anyway, birdwalk. Back to subject. 

It comes to this:  I have irrefutable truth and proof on my side.  She has "That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

But then she realized (because she is much smarter than the average teenager) that I must have something on her, because then she said, "I did ride the bus home. I just got off at an earlier stop, called Amanda to pick me and bring me the rest of the way because I didn't want to get home so late.  But then, Amanda couldn't come right away, so I was late."

Not once in this fiasco did she call me to let me know she was okay. I had other sources tell me they knew she was alive, but that they didn't know where.  But she did call and text Amy, and only Amy--definitely not me. I'm pretty sure that's because she knew she was going to get in trouble, so she might as well avoid hearing it on the phone.

Now, ask me if I believe that story. 

Seriously. Do I look THAT stupid?  Of course I don't believe her. I think she didn't want to ride the bus, DID want to hang out with friends, so she did what she wanted.  And as I thought,  the epiphany hit... 

It's something that I should have known or at least figured out WAY sooner.  Kids with attachment disorders, also known as Reactive Attachment Disorder, don't trust.  They don't believe in parental benevolence in any form, and don't for a second think that you have their best interests at heart.  And trying to convince any of them to trust is almost like asking Boppo the Chimp to reproduce Mona Lisa.  Messy and impossible.  And while not a total waste of time, but definitely not the best way to spend an afternoon, or year or a decade.

So why would I ask that of a young lady who is at the point in her life where she is trying to prove her independence and pull away from her family?  Duh.  Now who's got issues? 

I'm asking her to bond and pull closer when biology and society are telling her to pull away.  Or she could just have doubled up on her daily dose of Pain in the Ass Pills and decided to see if she could pull off another lie. 

No wonder we argue so much.

In the meantime, she wants to know if she can go spend the night with a friend and have her phone back. 

Attachment disorder or not, I'm thinking no.

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.

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.