Sliding In Under the Wire

At about 23:56 I realized that I hadn't written anything today, and the day was rapidly ending.  Much faster than I could get anything published.  I was going to blow it a whopping eight days in.  My 365 day challenge was going to tank.  I am calling a technicality however...  In Portland, OR it is still Wednesday.  In Nampa, Idaho it is still Wednesday.  Even in Nashville, Tennessee it is still Wednesday.  And there are people that I love in all of those places, so I am good to go.  Besides, everyone knows that the rule for when tomorrow begins is after a "sleep".  I haven't slept therefore it isn't tomorrow, and I have not failed my challenge.

So after all that justification and logic twisting, I am going to bed and calling Wednesday complete.  And I wrote something.  Even if it will shame me to no end tomorrow.  Which hasn't happened yet.  Because it is still today, and I have not failed to write something today.  Happy sleeps!

Hot Stuff

As much as I am confused by the workings of the brains in my kidlets' heads, I adore them.  I like spending time with them and enjoy seeing them interact with each other.  But the teen boy brain, I will never, ever, ever understand.

My father likes super spicy food.  The kids dared him once to down a packet of hot sauce while we were at Chick fil-A having lunch.  He obliged without even a twitch.  I am convinced he has long since burned off every single taste bud.  This feat of grandpa greatness has become a thing of legend in our house.  Every once in a while talk of upping that ante comes up.  No one has been brave enough to try the same thing.  Until last night.

K.Z. finally got the nerve to challenge the Tabasco King.  He grabbed a shot glass, filled half of it with the evil brew and after quite a few fearful false starts, downed it.  For a few seconds he thought he was home free.  Then the tabasco peppers, vinegar, and salt kicked in, and kicked back.  I am pretty sure he was going to implode.  I almost felt bad for him, and tried to hide my impending fit of laughter while I offered helpful advice on how to ease the burn straight from the bowels of hell (most of it I made up; I hate spicy food).  He lived through it, and I was fairly certain he had learned his lesson.  However, he is a teen boy, so the lesson lasted less than 24 hours.

Today he decided to challenge his best friend to "man up" and do it again.  I am fairly certain that downing Tabasco Sauce does not make you a man, but perhaps he grew a chest hair or two from the first experience.  This time though it was a full shot, and because his friend has just as many "fourteen year old brain cells" as my son, he took K.Z. up on the challenge.  Two idiots, two shot glasses.  What could go wrong?

I am quite happy to report that both boys survived the challenge (albeit with runny noses and teary eyes) relatively unscathed.  It is left to be seen if they have sprouted any chest hair, but I am fairly sure they have burned off a few taste buds.  Well done, boys.  Way to "man up"?

Y'all Just Settle Down Now!

I decided to give the kids the day off today.  Their friends were home from school today, and although I have heard many times that the best way to honor Dr. King's legacy is to work as hard as he did, I took the, "It's a National holiday" way out of doing school today.  You know what? I didn't even feel guilty.  For me, this is a major accomplishment.

For those who do not know our educational journey, we were homeschoolers wayyyy back in the beginning of my oldest's school days.  We started right at Kindergarten.  I ordered my very expensive complete Sonlight curriculum (which I loved) and faithfully checked off all the boxes each day.  The girls got their trickle down learning while K.Z. and I set off on the homeschool road, and later their own curriculum.  We crashed the homeschool vehicle on that homeschool road.  By third grade he went to a private school.  I was convinced they could do more for him.  The girls wound up eventually following.  Naturally, after we adopted Eazy and he hit Kindergarten, he went as well.

For years I had that nagging feeling that I wasn't doing what I was called to do.  I wanted my kids home, but homeschooling was stressful. Fighting with my oldest about school work was stressful.  It didn't magically stop in private school.  He came home and we battled over homework.  More stress.

We made the decision for various reasons to pull the kids from their school at the end of one year, and commit to the homeschool path we had set out on earlier.  It just felt right.  I was petrified, yet excited.  But this time, I didn't want to create school at home.  I just wanted my kids to learn, and enjoy it, no matter what that looked like.  I had a distinct feeling that it looked nothing like the "school at home" setting I had created before.  The problem with that plan was their uptight mother.  The one who loves to check boxes, and sees progress through completed curricula and filled in workbooks.  The one who could easily crack a whip while yelling, "You're gonna learn and you're gonna like it!"  Shudder...

I don't want to be that mom.  I don't even like that mom.  I decided this time would be different.  I am trying extremely hard to make it different, so I am trying to take a more relaxed approach, and guess what?  They are learning.  On Friday I put some of the books aside and we dove into learning more about manta rays from the previous days's lesson.  We watched educational cartoons about the Revolutionary War.  We used YouTube and Netflix.  And we learned.  All of us.  And we enjoyed it.  

I don't have it down yet, by any stretch.  I have cried buckets of tears over my perceived failures over their education.  I have doubted my curriculum choices, and fretted over their futures.  I have bent many a friend's ear and blown up their e-mail accounts with my worries. Despite all of this, there is a deep flowing peace.  It is palpable.  I just need to settle down and enjoy this journey, because I have a feeling if I just relax a bit, it's going to be a great one.

I Like My Honey Like I Like People...

I love honey.  Yep, I have finally admitted it.  I am a honey junkie.  My addiction started at a very young age, and it is all my mother's fault.  She introduced me to the honey and peanut butter combination on a sandwich.  I will dip almost anything in honey, eat it right off of a spoon, or add it to a drink or recipe.  Honey on a biscuit.  A piece of fried chicken dipped in honey.  Honey in my tea.  The list is endless.  Oh, have mercy...

Recently a friend picked up for me the biggest container of honey I have ever owned.  It's a thing of beauty.  A twelve pound container of heavenly gold.  My eleven year old C'sa was just as excited about it as I was.  The love of honey does not fall far from the tree.  Hmm, that doesn't quite do it. The honeyed apple doesn't fall far?  The bee doesn't fall far from the hive?  Yeah... never mind.  We will move on.

Anyway, as we opened the container, we stood in awe of the gorgeous raw manna within.  Because the honey had settled, there was a clear top layer that looked like typical store bought refined and heated honey.  However, underneath that layer, it was obvious that there was so much more depth.  A wonderful murky depth that was visible, but held a vast history.  I like my honey like I like people.

I love people.  I enjoy chatting with them, people watching (not in the creepy stalker way, just in the "observe from a park bench" way), and gleaning from a various dynamic of individuals.  I enjoy them more if they are like raw, unfiltered honey.  People who are refined and completely clear seem a bit shallow to me, with no depth to them.  But the people that are transparent like that first layer of raw honey allowing you to see their depth, are the people that I love getting to know and spending time with.  In that depth contains the grit that makes them fascinating and real.  The bits of their lives that when shaken up will rise to the surface to complete who they are. Their successes, their failures, their joys, and their fears.  Its all there, and they are not afraid to show it.  Be raw.  Be unfiltered.  Be sweet.  Be you.  Especially with all the bits and pieces.

Saying Thank You

I have a thank you note to write, yet I keep putting it off.  It is an important "thank you", to an important person in my life but the words won't come.  It isn't a lack of desire.  My heart is full of this particular thank you, but my brain simply cannot form the words that would match what my heart feels. And there are some days that the words "thank you" seem cheap and meaningless.

I have noticed that "thank yous" are thrown around easily nowadays, but without a lot behind them.  Surely the people speaking the words mean it, but it doesn't feel very solid.  Kind of like the obligatory, "thanks" hastily muttered when one holds a door open for you.  Its automatic.  Still polite, but not completely genuine.

I want this particular thank you to be authentic, genuine, and well received.  The gift it follows was planned, well thought out, and unique.  It was more than a gift, it was a hug sent in the mail.  A well planned hug from someone for whom a hug is tough to give.  But I got one, and I need to reciprocate.

So pray for me to be able to send a timely note of appreciation with my entire heart attached.  This "thank you" needs to hold weight.  

The Wonderful World of Siblings

I am an only child.  I am also the oldest, the youngest, and smack dab in the middle as one of six.  I will wait while that sinks in for a bit.  You are probably thinking that I have lost my ever-lovin' mind.  You are probably right, but on this topic, I am confident of my "non-place" in the sibling hierarchy.  Psychologist Dr. Kevin Leman (author of, The Birth Order Book) would have a field day with me.

Due to my unconventional and sometimes lonely childhood (I have two half brothers, two step-brothers, and a half sister; none of which I lived with full time while growing up), I always dreamed of having a gaggle of kids.  Five was the number I set my heart on at the ripe old age of nine, to be exact.  I never wanted my children to lack a playmate, best friend, or confidant.  I imagined their days spent inventing silly secret languages, playing with dolls, trucks, mud, bats and balls, the gambit.  My daughters would be bffs.  My sons would fight and slay dragons to defend their sisters' honor and integrity, all while never failing the brotherhood code of ethics.  It was all very neat and clean; quite idealistic.  And then the precious little darlings were born.

Initially all was going just swimmingly.  K.Z. adored his brand new sister and wanted to constantly play with her.  When little Xena was 21 months old, our third child C'sa came on the scene.  Still pretty copacetic.  Even when we started to foster our little guys, all was well.

And then... puberty.

I am not ignorant to this strange phenomenon.  I am pretty sure I only survived it by the skin of my teeth, and the fact that I had younger and cuter siblings to soften the blow of my hormone induced teenage psychosis.  But simply conquering puberty in one's own life can never really prepare you for the day when you watch your own beloved cutie pies morph into the wretched heathens they will become.  It goes from Mr. Roger's Neighborhood right to Lord of the Flies, in the blink of an eye.  And they start to get snarky with one another.  And fight.  And hate one another.  And the silly secret language of the cute days is replaced with what can only be described as a demon possessed Linda Blair like presence from The Exorcist.  My dream world of hearts and roses crashed and burned.

Now I do understand that the prefrontal cortex in the strange teen species does not develop fully until somewhere in their early twenties, but there are days I swear there must be tumbleweeds and crickets chirping in the space where all that good adult brain will someday form.  And frankly, it baffles me.  There are GREAT days with these offspring of mine and I do generally like them, but I miss those sweet babies, and look forward to the cool creatures that will emerge from these teen bodies.  That is if I actually survive it (if they survive it).  Do they make "Teen Survival Kits"?

Someone send chocolate. It's gonna be a long few years coming.

I'm Cheating... A little

Today is day three of my challenge to write daily for the year and I, um well, didn't.  Not officially.  So, in the sprit of the challenge I am posting today, but this wasn't written today.  This was written this year for our women's quarterly newsletter at church.  Call it a re-run of sorts...

Disco and grenades

Imagine this scene, I am a mother of three young ones, finally getting to take a much anticipated shower for the day.  I finish up, wrap up in a towel...  Wait!  Scratch that. Imagine nothing.  I will save both of us that embarrassment by just telling you the rest of the story.  Let's try this again.

Back before there were five kiddos running this place, there were just three.  A six year old and his two sisters, ages four and two.  They were good kids, but kids nonetheless and subject to fits of, "kid stupidity"; hence I never left lighters laying around, nor live grenades, etc.  Sometimes even just escaping to take a quick shower could lead to trouble, so I would leave my bedroom door wide open and take the fastest shower known to all humanity, all with one ear finely tuned to the three cherubs innocently watching PBS, downstairs in my family room.

Once clean and happy (a shower for me is like the strongest cup of java you can imagine, it is my boost for the day), I would proceed to get dressed in my room, door still standing wide open.  This took finesse.  I had to listen for said cherubs and maneuver the towel strategically while getting dressed, in case one of the kids should suddenly pop up unannounced in the doorframe.  I have always valued my privacy, even with my young ones involved, so if you will, picture the most awkward disco dancing on the planet while a towel is held to your chest with only your chin.  This is what I must have looked like getting dressed with my door wide open, trying to maintain a shred of dignity and decorum.

After about a half gazillion times of doing this, it finally dawned on me... close the door.  Yep.  Walk the whopping ten feet from the dresser to the door and close it.  It would take me nanoseconds to get dressed sans the disco dancing towel, and the children would be just fine while I did so.  After all I am a mother, and mothers can get dressed faster than the speed of sound if need be.  Just close the door.

Following this grand epiphany, I took pause.  It is just like our lives as believers and followers of Christ.  We live in a world of chaos, where sin is just waiting to pop up in the doorframe and enter our world, as we dance and maneuver behind towels to try and avoid it.  What if we just shut the door?  What if we simply did not allow all that sin and chaos into our lives and the lives of our families?  We deal with it enough on a daily basis, so why invite it in?

I don't know what may pop into your doorframe.  It may be a certain type of musical influence, or media.  It could be a relationship that could spin out of control and become inappropriate, or an influence taking you away from worshipping your Savior.  It could be weekend sports that give you no time for Sunday morning fellowship, or just one more goal to obtain that steals your time and focus from your family and friends.  My list and your list will be different, but they are both very real.  Pray about what may be influencing you in a way that is not Christ honoring.  We need to learn to shut the door on the world and simply stop hoping it will not saunter in, because it will.  No more awkward disco dancing to circumvent possible grenades.  Make the decision to just shut that door.

Day Two

I have been challenged. Challenged to do something that I love, have always wanted to do professionally, and dreamed about doing as a young child (well in between spinning as fast as I could in circles, in a vain attempt to turn into Wonder Woman; I still try sometimes, but thus far, no luck).  I have been challenged to write every day for the entire year.  Every. Single. Day.

Now the requirements of this challenge are not insurmountable.  After all, just by typing this I have met the requirements for the day, but somehow, it isn't quite enough.  I write constantly in my head.  In the shower or in the car I have "written" some thought provoking pieces (well, at least in my own mind), at night my brain works overtime forming sentences, and even making dinner while trying to block out the dull roar that is my life with five kidlets, I can be quite creative.  Yet now, with a quiet house and a keyboard at hand, my brain betrays me.

I guess that will be the norm on some days.  I want to try and carve out time that I can just write, but that may not always happen.  You might wind up getting my latest tirade on who left gerbil food in the bathroom sink (this happens more often than I can even describe), but I promise (umm no, of course my fingers are not crossed behind my back... gulp!), I will do my best to write something each day. Anything.

Now for a couple quick spins as fast as I can.  I refuse to give up that dream of the golden lasso and cool bullet reflecting bracelets.  A girl needs some bling in her life...

Home Again

Fran drags a big glass.

The frog slips in the mud.

The clam is in the grass.

I haven't written in a while, because THIS is my life lately. Fran and her big glass totally ignore the clam in the grass and the frog in the mud.  Fran is a snob.  At least in my version of the reader that my seven year old is sounding out at a slow pace.  At a staggering, mind numbingly, slow pace.  So, I have to jazz this story up in my mind, or I just. might. lose it.

I must admit that teaching children to read is lower on my "enjoyment scale" than having plaque scraped off of my teeth, stepping on Legos, or navigating my way through the back yard before the kids have picked up the all the dog bombs. I find it that painful.  So I am extremely thankful that this is my last child that needs to learn the basics of reading.  For someone who adores reading and writing, this may seem odd, but it is my reality.  I have a dear friend who was an elementary school teacher before she had children.  Teaching young ones to read is her absolute favorite educational activity.  Secretly, I think she sniffs Elmer's School Glue when no one is looking.

But alas, this is actually the life I begged for, prayed about, and coveted.  My kids are home with me again after a few years in private school and a year stint with a cyber school.  They are learning in their individual styles. We are figuring this traditional homeschooling route as we go along.  And it's all good.  Except for Fran.  Fran with her big glass, is a punk.

The Art of Touch

My nine year old was sitting at the kitchen table this afternoon, happily playing with my tablet.  I had to pass her half a dozen times in my various journeys to and from the kitchen.  After about the third time, I realized I had touched her head with my hand every single time I passed her.  She is not my little personal talisman, but she is my child, and I like to touch her sun kissed locks.

My father is a hugger, when it comes to his children.  When we were little, my dad would frequently hug my brothers and me.  Sometimes just for standing near him.  It was a little girl's greatest joy, to have her superstar daddy show affection.  My dad is a strong man, and when I was little he was even stronger, tougher, and even more rugged in my eyes.  He was just cool.  And he loved me. 

I made a conscious effort to replicate my dad in that way.  I love people.  I hug people.  There are times I have to refrain, and not hug people when I see them, because not everyone is a "hug enthusiast" (no worries, I do know boundaries, but more than likely I will be that crazy lady at the grocery store who hugs each and everyone she sees, when I am in my 90's; Lord willing).  My kids however, are fair game.  After all, they can't escape (insert evil laugh...).  I hug them constantly.  I kiss the tops of their heads.  I swoop in for the one armed "side hug", when they are just standing in a room.  I hug and kiss them goodnight.  We sit close on the couch and cuddle.  My daughters still put their heads on my lap so I can stroke their hair.  Some of the kids will still hold my hand in public.  When they cry, I hold them tightly.

So after thirteen years of employing these methods, you know what I got in return?  A thirteen year old son, who despite trying very hard to find his place in the world and be cool, will come up to his momma and put his head on her much shorter shoulder, to initiate a hug, just because.  I had braced myself for a time when he would cringe in deflection of an oncoming embrace, like he does with his sisters.  It hasn't come yet, and it may still, but so far, so good. 

I can only pray for what my father's efforts with his children produced; siblings who have no trouble dispensing affection upon one another and their parents, for the rest of their lives.  Pursue your children.  Hug them, kiss them on their foreheads, simply put your hand on their shoulder briefly as you pass by.  I promise, the dividends to come are amazing.

Where Did the Time Go?

I cannot believe I have not written here since 2012.  2012?!  Seriously?  Facebook is the death of the blogger, I do declare!

We have news, if there is still anyone here to hear me shout it from the roof tops.  This blog started as a homeschool blog, and then we switched gears after 5 years of homechooling (in the middle of fostering and adopting) to a private school family for the last four years.  Well guess what?  We are switching gears AGAIN.  I want my kiddos back.

Next year we will be homeschooling again and I am so excited.  So are the kids.  We are so happy to go back to what seems more familiar and natural for us.  I expect bumps, hiccups, and tears.  I also expect smiles, laughter, and joy.  I am so ready for this new path to begin.  More to come!

The Safe Place

Yesterday was a long day.  After dinner I headed upstairs, opened my bedroom door, walked in, and got that, "Ahhhh minute".  You know the one.

Once I am dressed for the day and downstairs, unless I am putting something away in my room, I rarely venture back in there.  I close the door to spare my, killer-clearance-price-Target-bedspread from sticky toddler hands and smelly dogs, causing the room to get the full benefit of air conditioning, and the scent of shampoo and shower gel from my morning shower.  It just mingles in there, so when you open the door and walk in... "Ahhh".  Purely wonderful.  Almost retreat like.  Nothing to do with the chaos one floor below, even if the stinky dogs follow me in (eyeballing my, killer-clearance-price-Target-bedspread).

I only had a minute to freshen up the last night before I had to run off for a meeting. So, I just stood there for a second and took it in.  It didn't matter that the chair held a basket of laundry to be folded, or that my shoes were sitting by the closet door, anxious to get in there.  It was my place.

That is what I want for my kiddos.  The ones I produced from my body, but especially the ones we adopted.  I want them to walk in the house and know that it is their place, their "safe place", and that all is right with the world when they step over that threshold.

Adoption in the Digital Age

Four score and seven years ago... okay, maybe just even a score ago, adoption did not have quite as many challenges as it does today.  "What?!", you ask.  Shouldn't it be easier now that we are in an age of instant access to information?  At the tip of your fingertips lies a million opportunities and endless amounts of information.  Yep. So, let me tell you where my dilemma lies and then you can tell me your thoughts.  Because I want to hear them.


My brain and my heart are at an impasse. 


Two of my kiddos are adopted.  We adopted them after fostering them through our county agency.  As they were foster children first, we know their families; having dealt with them during the process of possible reunification, and have somewhat of a relationship with various family members (older siblings, aunts, etc.).  Their birth mothers are not raising them for very valid reasons.  Therefore, we are not exactly meeting up for dinner, or the like.  


Our state does not recognize, "open adoption" legally.  As parents we have the right to share anything we want with birth parents, but we also have the right to do nothing. Even if we had agreed to share photos (we did not), the Commonwealth would not enforce it nor compel us to honor our word.


There are several of the boys' relatives that I really like. Older siblings, young aunts, and others, who had no control nor ability to offer respite to the boys before they went into foster care.  The fact that the boys went into foster care and later were adopted, distressed them.  They have been cordial to us and have tried to maintain somewhat of a relationship, even though none of us really know the protocol of a situation that ideally, should have never been necessary.  But it was necessary, and hence my dilemma.


I love my boys.  Adore them.  I love them as much as my biological children, with that fierce, loyal, complete, "Momma Bear Love", that only a mother can understand.  I am also quite protective of them, and probably a little more so because of their life circumstances before adoption.  


I have shared pictures with their biological families before, only to have those pictures wind up on Facebook and MySpace.  It enraged me.  That may seem a bit of an overreaction, but it really upset me, as none of those who posted the pictures had bothered to ask me.  The "Momma Bear".  A couple even just copied them off of my Facebook page (I have since changed their access to photos) and added them as their own.  So I stopped sending the relatives electronic pictures.  One of them took pictures of the hard copies I sent and posted them on MySpace anyway.  I have not sent any more, but she has been asking for them.


I have never approached these relatives with my displeasure.  It is an awkward conversation to even envision.  These are MY sons.  I have the court documents and years of raising them to prove it.  I have an obligation to protect them and their stories.  Unlike my family and friends who are interested in the lives and photos of my children because they not only love them, but because they are a part of a bigger Mr. Clean family entity, the boys' biological relatives seem to only have interest in the life that isn't.  The part of the boys' lives that were irrevocably changed when they joined our family.


None of us really have any control over our lives.  We have choices to make and reactions to circumstances to decide, but even then, until we are at an age that we can recognize this fact, someone else has to guide us along.  When you adopt a child, there is an added history to manage.  One you had no part in and one your child may or may not want a part of when they come to an age to understand it.  Because of that, I feel like I need to protect them a bit more.  I do not want their pictures plastered all over the internet without my consent.  I freely share pictures of my children, but I chose the circumstances.  I decide for all of them what is seen and who can see it, until they are old enough to make that decision on their own.  By others doing that without me knowing, I think they are stepping over the line.  I do not care if they share DNA or not.


This may sound harsh.  It sounds harsh to me, even though I have read it, re-read it, and even edited it in various ways.  There is no way I have been able to open my heart in this post to show you what I am feeling and thinking, because it comes from a place that is indescribable.  A mother's heart.


We no longer live in an age when school pictures sent to far off relatives (or biological families) wind up on the fridge for a season, then into a drawer or old photo album.  Or even the trash.  The digital age has taught us that photos now live forever and can be duplicated and sent to millions in an instant.  It makes one feel a tad vulnerable to think about your child's image being shared without your knowledge.  Even if it is without an ounce of malice.


My boys will one day have to sort out their own feelings about being adopted, their biological parents and siblings, and if they want to delve into that part of themselves.  It almost feels like a betrayal to them if I share everything about them with a family they do not know now and may not want to know in the future.  Maybe they will, and we will certainly encourage that, but until that time I feel it is my job to protect them.  There is a big difference in having your annual school picture up on Great Aunt Tilly's fridge, and special shared family moments being copied and pasted onto someone else's social network site. A huge difference.


My head wants to share these moments with the boys' biological families.  My heart wants to protect them and save them until my boys can consent to sharing them themselves.