Mom's Night Out

Such a Terrific Day

2011-05-11T06:50:00.001-07:00

Hey - I have to tell you all what a wonderful event the ladies of Light of Life church in Kent put on for Kam's van this past Saturday. It was a rainy day - shocking, right? - and despite the rain, they had a room packed with tables and displays and shiny things. There was a raffle going on; candles lit; chocolate (score!); balloons; and more.

I took my hats, too. Now, my original plan was to have daughter Kelsey there to act as back-up for the monsters (you know who I mean). I know my fam, and their ability to maintain in a social situation starts to degrade after about an hour, tops. And in our family, when they are done, the gloves come off.

The trouble was, Kelsey's college had graduation right at that same time. She's going into her senior year and had a ton of friends graduating. And, in my opinion, Kelsey's given a pretty big chunk of her twenty-one years helping with the "little kids." I insisted that she go to the graduation. "I can handle the kids, Kels. I do it all the time."

Big words.

The event went from 10am - 3pm. That's five hours. Yeah...you can see where this is headed.

We were late to begin with. Not surprising. When I think of analogies to getting us all ready and out the door for anything, I think of how difficult it must be to, say, maneuver a massive cruise ship or one of those jumbo-sized container vessels through the Panama Canal. You know, they don't exactly turn on a dime. You need lots of lead time.

Plus, we had lots of things to load up: wheelchair, backpacks full of potential distractions for all three kids, the boxes with my hats and stuff, flyers, and changes of clothes (just in case). Totally forgot food or snacks. But, hey, I'm not perfect, right?

We got to the event just before 11am, and I have to say, the kids did pretty well. Klaryssia tried to talk to anything and anyone that moved (nothing new here), Kobi exhibited his newly-emerging rebellious behaviors (glassy stare, ever-so-slightly raised eyebrow in response to my requests, and flat out ignoring me), and Kameron tried to hug anyone nearby. This can be a little off-putting, because since he's sitting down, his hugs land around most folk's hips. Awkward.

But, they eventually settled in, and kept busy for quite awhile. I was proud of them. We made it almost to the end, and they really had a great time. It was only in those last hours that Kam hit Klaryssia and she squealed loud enough to be heard in the next state, and Kobi hit Kam because Kam wanted Kobi's Nintendo DS, and Kam started trying to wheel his chair over everyone in his path because he wanted to go outside in the rain and play basketball.

But before all that, these wonderful women spoiled us and came over to meet us, and just generally made us all feel very welcome. I wish I knew everyone's names to say personal thank yous. The kids and I are so grateful for your efforts, and we had an amazing time. God bless you, every one!

2011-05-06T10:33:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone! Lots of stuff happening!

We have a big fund raiser for Kam's van tomorrow, Saturday May 7th from 10am - 3pm. The Light of Life Lutheran church in Kent, WA is holding a gathering of several home-based businesses like Mary Kay, Pampered Chef, Scentsy, Avon, Touchstone Crystals, and I don't know who all else. I'm planning on being there, too - with my hats =-). The address for the church is 28525 216th Ave. SE in Kent.

I'm so incredibly grateful to this group of women; most of whom don't know us from Adam (so to speak). They heard about our project from Ellen Lamb, an old co-worker of mine and an adoptive mom, too. This apparently led to this wonderful fundraiser. They've even enlisted Thrivent Financial, a Lutheran Foundation (I believe) to match funds raised during this event - 2:1. AWESOME, yes?

So, if you pray, please do for this event - it would be SO fantastic if we could have a great turnout. However it goes, I am feeling blessed by these women and their hearts for my son and my little family. I can't wait to meet them tomorrow. Pictures will be taken and posted on Kam's Facebook group/page.

My little Etsy store has generated a few hundred dollars in sales toward the cause - Yay! I love it that people like my things; one of the teachers at Kam and Kobi's school special-ordered a men's beanie in Sounder's colors. That was fun. And the Front Desk Lady ordered three hats for her granddaughters for Easter. So sweet! I make afghans for big and little people, too. Feel free to message me if you are interested. It all goes to the van!

Love to everyone, and don't forget Mother's Day!!!!!

K+

Mid Winter Break

2011-02-28T07:06:00.000-08:00

Okay, what's the deal with this Mid-Winter Break stuff? We never had this back in the day. We had Christmas and Easter break, then Summer. With a few holidays sprinkled in. No wonder America's doing so horribly academically. The kids are never in school.

Boy I'll tell you, a week at home with your two and a half special kids (Kobi is only about 1/2 "special" ) during freezing cold weather will definitely bring out Ms. Crabby Mom. At least it did in me.

Whoa.

I don't think they got to stay up late one night. The three of them make a potent recipe for mommie madness. Kameron and Klaryssia are both crazy stubborn, then throw in Kobi, my Drama King, and I'm frankly amazed we all survived the week.

Bickering (of the "she's looking at me" sort), mixed with boy-type exploits and my attempts to keep on top of work and school assignments (while feeding and caring for their needs) made for some interesting times. One afternoon, the Kameron managed to squeeze the filling out of a special gel-filled pillow left over from the last hospital stay. This was when the boys were playing in their room with the door closed. Closed doors are always a recipe for disaster, I think. Kobi decided to clean up the white foamy mess, and so water was added to this stuff.

It turns greasy with water.

By the time they came to get me to fix things, the white grease mess was everywhere. On both beds, in hair, on clothes, on the wall, all over the wood floor...you get the picture.

It took awhile to figure out how to get it off. BTW, in case this ever happens to you, the Swiffer wood floor mix doesn't do it; the Swiffer all-purpose floor cleaner, judiciously applied and dried with a towel afterwards, does.

Kobi did the drying.

I can't remember which day this was; they've all run together like a watercolor painting left in the rain...but today everyone's back to school. I'm hopeful I'll get some good work done.

I need to build up a backlog before Spring Break.

Okay - Cancel That.

2011-02-24T09:29:00.000-08:00

So, I'm whining and worrying and complaining. All the antithesis of faith.

Where has my faith and trust been the last, oh...several years?

Idk, but I'm going to, one day - today - put both feet down on my Solid Rock and just trust. And wait. He is bigger than Ellen, bigger than ALL my efforts for this darned van. I will just wait.

If it's His will for Kam to have that van, then it will happen. Without my "efforts."

I apologize for the self-pitying nonsense from yesterday. Today is a new day, and I will trust and I will shut up. =-)

Thanks to my new friend at http://www.thetrustingnomad.com/ for the reminder of what I was like when I simply trusted and obeyed.

Hard Work

2011-02-23T10:08:00.000-08:00

I have to tell you guys, asking for help is hard work.

I don't do it much. Probably because it's so darned hard. It isn't just the asking - though, that's pretty difficult - it's the balance you need to maintain and the waiting, and the letting go of the outcome part that hangs me up, I think.

The whole van thing's been coming on for years. The knowledge that someday Kam would be huge, and that I wouldn't be able to keep transferring him has been hidden in the back of my head, crammed in with a bunch of other "things to think about later" thoughts. I've had back and neck problems for years (not just from lifting him, but that's where my stress sits - like most everyone's does). And anyone who knows me has heard me talk about it for a long time, too.

But it's one of those things you just don't bring to the front burner because you really have no idea how to address it. Money's been an issue for quite awhile - though I probably could have saved enough for a decent used van by now if I'd been diligent - but something else always seemed more important. So, I waited. I delayed. I procrastinated.

Then came the surgery. Talk about eye-opening. I'd resigned myself to being home with him the entire six weeks he was in the spica cast. He was just too wide and heavy. He'd NEVER fit in my car, and barely fit in the rented wheelchair. So, that I was okay with. But when he came out of the cast on November 8th, I must have imagined he would rehab for a bit and then be all better, bearing weight on his legs and helping with transfers, like he was before.

Nope.

He was in more pain then I'd ever seen him in, and he's been in a lot of pain over his short life. Oxy-codone pain; pain so bad it made him throw up. Serious pain. But this cast removal post-op recovery thing put him in a tailspin, and me too. Physically, he was as weak as a newborn, but weighing 114 pounds. He cried every time I touched him: doing his range of motion (exercises to stretch him and get his muscles back - 3x a day) or moving him from any spot to any other (like from the bed to the wheelchair or the commode or the tub). It was horrible.

It took two people (a part time care provider and me) to get him in and out of my car. One of us (me) inside the thing pulling him up into the seat, and one on the outside trying to get his hips up over the side of the car, him crying all the while. More horribleness.

Somewhere in this nightmarish time, I started really jonesing (old addict-speak for serious craving) for a van. All I could think about was how much easier our lives would be if we could just roll him onto a lift and strap his chair down and drive away.

I fantasize about it. It would be safe to say that I'm almost obsessed with it.

Now, that's not a good thing. It's skewed this whole fund-raising process. When we are obsessed, everything gets filtered through that obsession. My self-worth is getting tangled up in whether or not any money comes in.

Here's some of what I've done: I tweeted every major person who "helps" I could think of; went on the Special Needs sites and blogs; emailed and tweeted local news stations and people; called and emailed local associations that help adopted, special needs and foster children, DSHS people, Van dealers, local and national, Kam's therapists (past and present); churches, every friend of mine I could think of...now, I've opened an Etsy shop (online craft selling) and am making hats and scarves every night when I watch TV. I can't think of more to do.

But it's very very slow going. And, that's probably okay. I have never tried to fund-raise before, I don't have a paradigm for how it should go.

For me, though, it takes a lot of time I don't really have. And I'm getting really tired. Trying to raise this van $ is just one more huge job in a life crammed full of huge jobs. I apologize here, I'm sliding into self-pity, and I HATE self-pity. I haven't blogged in quite awhile, and part of the reason is I can't come up with any happy, hope-filled topics. I'm just getting worn down by the daily struggles - and don't know what to do about it. The Bible says, "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life." Proverbs 13:12

I am really fighting against this slide into hopelessness. But it seems like I've been fighting for, well, for my whole life, and I'm wearing out. So, please pray with and for me. If we don't get the van, I guess we just don't get it, and we'll adjust. I'll try to keep saving and making my little crafts; I'm finally submitting some stuff for possible publication, too - maybe that will "work." But in the mean time, I need to get my darned chin up off the freaking floor and do more than just make it through each day. I need to get some of that "life" stuff flowing.

As I wait for Ellen to call.

Thanks for your patience, everyone.

Why Special Needs Kids?

2011-01-28T06:13:00.000-08:00

Okay, so we've established that I'm completely nuts. Not only did I decide, fifteen years ago, to become a foster parent as a single mother, I already had two children, but what the heck??? I decide to be the foster parent to special needs children. See? Nuts. But wait, there's more!

THEN I decide to adopt some of the little boogers. Whoa. Certifiable.

Yes, I agree. People tell me I'm a freakin' saint. Not so. Not so at all, in fact.

I think it's more obedience. Foolish, sold-out obedience.

See, back when I was doing the big house, tons of foster kids, crazy ranch thing, I was also practicing a very simple faith. He said it, so I believed it.

His Word said to love as I'd been loved. I'd been transformed by His love, so I knew it was real. Therefore, I needed to love that way. Simple, right? Along came my first disabled foster children. Okay, they're a little odd. Yes, it was weird having teenagers in (gulp) diapers. But that love thing? It didn't have any strings about diapers on it that I could tell.

So, I loved them. And God took care of us.

More special kids came. Come to find out that "love" thing can cover a whole bunch of inexperience and lack. I learned about PTs, OTs, STs, and all the other "t"s. (Therapies). I learned about a whole cornucopia of medicines. Meds for Seizures, meds for constipation, meds for ADD and OCD and all that stuff. I literally had a tool box locked up filled with meds for these children.

Oh yeah, children. They were little people. On the foster care totem pole - which already has an awful lot of damaged and unwanted children - the DD/Special kids were pretty much at the bottom.

But they are children. And they are people. Little people let down by parents who probably were damaged themselves. Some of my kids were from "typical" homes where the dad couldn't hang and took off, leaving a mom alone with a child she couldn't find resources to raise. The way our system is set up, if you have a job and a special kid, you won't get much help. If you put him or her into foster care, though, then they can receive all kinds of services. Or, you can quit working and go on "assistance" yourself. Decisions, decisions.

So along the road of just loving these children, I found out a funny thing: I actually did love them.

Beyond the diapers and drool and slurred speech and repetitive behaviors and braces on body parts and range of motion and equipment needs and meds and doctors appointments and tooth brushing and IEP meetings and hospital stays and fighting with everyone to advocate for these kids . . . is the bottom line fact that they are children. They didn't ask to be born. They especially didn't ask to be born the way they are. They didn't ask to be abused or neglected or abandoned.

Someone has to care.

And I'm exceedingly glad it's me.

¹²He said also to the man who had invited him, "When you give a dinner or a banquet, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, lest they also invite you in return and you be repaid. ¹³But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, ¹⁴and you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you. Luke 14:12-14a

A Shameless Plea ...

2011-01-27T19:35:00.000-08:00

Hi all -

The following is a shameless plea for help.

As many of you know, my now eleven year old son, Kameron, has had a pretty tough road. He was a 25 week premie with a grade four brain bleed (translated: he was born 3 months early because his biological mom couldn't stop hitting the crack pipe while she carried him and he should have never survived his extreme prematurity); after he came into my foster home at a year, on a ventilator and with a feeding tube in his tummy, he thrived, and around 3 years later, was off the vent, had the tube removed, and was looking great.

Then, when he turned five, he inexplicably began having massive migraine headaches, vomiting, seizures, and stroke-like symptoms. Turned out he had some crazy thing called Arteriovenous Malformations. Lots of them. They are kind of like aneurisms in his brain, threatening to burst and kill him. More than thirty procedures, including brain surgery, later - no more major seizures. In fact, he's been mostly seizure free since August 2008. Awesome!

So, now we address his other physical issues. Little man can't walk. He's been scooting on the floor, and with a special walker (called a gait trainer), he can move around some. To the Orthopedist we go. Now, we've been going to the Ortho doctor for years. But, this time, when we did a check-in hip x-ray, this is what it showed:

Now, I'm not a professional, but these babies looked bad, even to me. He needed surgery on both hips. The operation included cutting through both femurs (say WHAT?), bolting them back in the right place, and rebuilding his left hip socket.

Sure, says I. We can handle that. Ha. "We"? Kam's the one who went through it all. I just helped with the after care stuff. The surgery was September 14th, 2010. It lasted six hours, and he came out in a thing called a Spica Cast. It encased him from just below his nipple line down to his ankles, made him look a lot like a little plastic cowboy, you know, how their legs are in the ready-to-sit-on-the-saddle position? Like that.

And yes, there was a hole in the front and back for the personal hygiene stuff. Enough said.

He was home the entire six weeks, mostly because he was doped up on pain meds the first two weeks, couldn't poop the next one (kidding, kind of), and really because the only wheelchair I could fit him in was completely unable to be transported on a special bus. He had a tutor for a few hours each morning, Mr. Steve.

Transferring him from place to place - like bed to commode to wheelchair - was accomplished with the help of a thing called a Hoyer Lift. That's the pic at the top of this post.

Okay, so we get through this. He has the cast removed, and we start physical therapy, pool therapy, and getting back to school therapy. What didn't I plan for? Oh yeah. He's had major surgery on both of his legs. And both hips. Hummm. Guess there will be some weakness, pain, and general tough stuff. Yep.

But, he's a tough kid. "Survivor" doesn't begin to cover it. He is a bit cranky - ha! But, so am I by this point.

Bottom line, he, me, we, are all doing better. BUT the reason for this particular post is to, as I said, make a shameless plea for help. Kam is officially a paraplegic. Actually, I think they diagnose him as a quad, because he has a really weak left arm, and they don't call people tri-plegic. But, I don't have a way to transport him. I drive a Pacifica. It's kind of a station wagon. Not a van, not a sedan. In order to take Kameron to his many medical appointments, I have to lift him up into the bucket passenger seat, and then lift his wheelchair (which weighs 27 kilos - 59 pounds) into the back of the car.

Kam now weighs 110 pounds.

I am a strong woman, thank God. Really, I mean that. But, I am not getting any younger. And the years of caregiving are taking their toll. My back is prone to serious spasms, and frankly, I avoid taking Kameron out at all costs. Obviously, I make it to the necessary appointments; I have to. He has to see the PTs and the OTs and the doctors.

But, I have for years wanted to be able to take him out on regular family type things. To go to the park. To take him to the movies (although behavior can be a bit challenging...), for crying out loud, I'd like to just throw him in the car and go to the grocery store.

He needs a wheelchair van. Seriously.

I have looked into this for a long time; they aren't cheap. A new conversion van is in the 35k range. Funny thing is, I looked at a used Caravan, a 2000 Caravan, and the price on it was $20k. Even used, they are extremely pricey. And I just don't have the ability to finance one. There are some on Craigslist that are from the 90's that go for around $6,000, but I can't swing that right now, either. And he is getting bigger. We just got him fit for a larger wheelchair.

SOOOOO, I am asking for help. I added a "donate" button at the top of the blog. If any of you feel like you could or would be able to help in this, I would be beyond grateful.

Kam's had a some challenging times, and yet, he's a really good boy. He has a long road ahead, and frankly, as his sole caregiver, so do I.

Anything you can do would be so so so appreciated.

Thanks everyone. Oh, by the way, this is how his hips look now:

Aren't they BEAUTIFUL??

Unconditional Love

2011-01-23T18:18:00.000-08:00

The kids and I got to church yesterday. It's the first time in more than eight months, and I was glad to be there. For a lot of reasons, really. First of all, it was terrific to actually get all three kids together and go somewhere as a family - somewhere that wasn't a medical appointment.

I planned ahead.

Kobi would go down to the children's program (it's downstairs at this church we go to); Klaryssia would stay with Kameron and me upstairs in "regular" church. For this to happen, both Klaryssia and Kam would have to have distractions. Quiet ones, preferably.

Klaryssia packed her dog-eared Bible (she likes to look up "versions" and copy them down for fun), her MP3 player from Christmas (the ear bud cord is already sporting a few patches of purple duct tape - don't know HOW she breaks the cord, must chew on it), some gum, a few pens and plenty of paper.

For Kameron, I crammed his backpack full of stuff: his portable dvd player (got that for hospital trips, works like a charm, just stick in Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and we're good to go); his Leapster (he likes to do math games), a bag full of granola bars and fruit snacks (when all else fails, feed him), a notebook (to write out math problems when the Leapster joy fades), several markers, and a hardback copy of Eclipse (he likes to look at the page numbers and chapter headings).

Off we went.

We got everyone loaded almost on time (about 15 minutes behind schedule, which is practically the same as on time). Headed over. Unloaded, wheeled into church. A nice usher offered to take Kobi down to the kid's area. We settled into the almost back row, experience tells me to be close to exits in case someone's about to lose it. And, hey. It worked! Kam stayed fairly happy - I had enough of the right things to keep him entertained and almost quiet. Klaryssia LOVED the singing - she sang as soon as the words popped up on the screen, which was a tad ahead of the actual music, but hey, she was having a blast. She smiled and swayed to the music the whole time.

I was just so grateful to be there. Me and God are kind of in this quiet place in our relationship. Well, I am. I'm pretty sure He's just hanging up there, waiting on me. I spent twenty-eight years as a non-believer in Him. Long, sad, lonely years, angry at everyone and full of blame and self-pity.

Then, I met this crazy lady who was nice to me. She offered me a ride with my groceries, and later invited my then very tiny family (just Kristopher and me) over for dinner. Blew me away with this kindness. As I said, I was very sad and lonely. She talked about her church and about how God had changed her life. By the end of the night, I was asking to go.

This church, tucked into one of the fringe neighborhoods around the edges of Seattle, was small. Maybe a hundred people on a good Sunday. But they were so sweet to me, so genuinely welcoming and interested in me and in my little bi-racial toddler boy. They weren't shocked that I, a tall redheaded white lady was there with him (remember, this was twenty years ago, single moms and mixed-race kids were rarer then). They didn't press for info about his dad, or our life-style (which I expected, after all, aren't those "Christians" so judgmental?). They just welcomed us and really accepted us. That got me interested in this God they loved.

One thing led to another, I started reading - for the first time, really - the Bible, and before I knew it, I was His. I want to be clear: it wasn't the people that "talked me into" making such a radical decision. It was His Word and the response I felt in my soul, deep down where nothing was living - it spoke to me in ways I can't describe. So, I told Him, "Let's go for it!" And my life changed. Not lonely - I had Him; not sad - ditto. Plus I had this whacky little group of old ladies, middle-aged folks, and odd-balls at this church. They loved us. Unconditionally.

Then I moved to Colorado Springs to Do Big Things for God. What followed were fifteen of the best and hardest years of my life. Way too much to cram in here - there are probably older posts that cover some of it - but, my faith took some really big hits. I think I started loving Him conditionally. Based on what He could do for me but didn't, for what ever reason. I had a set of expectations in mind when I started all this work for him, and He let me down. Which sounds pretty ridiculous, because if the work was for Him, and He had a plan, then how could He let me down?

But things didn't go like I'd hoped. And it hurt me bad.

So, back to why church was so great yesterday. No one really sought us out, or especially welcomed us. No one went out of their way to say, "hi". And that was completely fine. I wasn't there for the people, necessarily. I was there to represent. My loyalty is to Him. He's done great and amazing things in my life, and even if they aren't all turning out how I'd hoped, planned, and expected, they are amazing nonetheless. And I will stay faithful.

Somewhere in the message, the Pastor talked about having unconditional faith in God; loving Him in all circumstances, like Paul did. Paul, who didn't have an easy time of things, yet never stopped loving and never stopped believing. My job is to stay faithful whatever happens, no accusations, no finger-pointing, no fist-shaking. My job is to love Him unconditionally, like He loves me. When I am faithless, He is faithful.

I need those reminders. And I think that's what church is for, really.

Thanks for reading, much love -

The Road Not Taken

2011-01-21T07:59:00.001-08:00

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.^[1]

The Road Not Taken

2011-01-21T07:59:00.000-08:00

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

The Road Taken

2011-01-18T22:26:00.000-08:00

I've been a single parent to special needs children for over fifteen years. This has been by my choice - I fostered my kiddos before I adopted them, and I had many other special children in my care for quite a few years. So I went into this "specialized" gig with both eyes wide open.

Now, I'm not saying it's an easy gig. Or, that I was 100% prepared for the intense level of parenting it is. But, I've really been noticing the difference choosing makes.

Let me explain.

I have a friend whose boys were born autistic. Her marriage broke up when the boys were in elementary school, and she's raised them on her own ever since. Now, they are in their late teens, and she's still alone, loving her boys, taking care of them, and trying to make their lives as happy and "well-adjusted" as square pegs can in this round-hole world.

They do movies, and sometimes the Art Museum. Disney on Ice is a big hit for them, too. They make it every year. They're a bit conspicuous at Disney, though. Her "boys" are both well over six feet and not small. But, they squeeze into the little seats at the Arena and wear their mouse ears with pride as they sing along with the Princesses. They love to go to the zoo, and the State Fair each summer.

I admire how much they do, how active they are despite some significant behavioral challenges.

But, one night over a glass of wine, as I was rambling on and on about how gorgeous my new granddaughter was, and how sad I was that my son and his little family lived so far away, I happened to notice her face. And it hit me like a forehead slap: she would never have grandchildren.

My heart just slipped down from my chest into my stomach, and I felt tears behind my eyes. Oh my word. Here I was going on about missing my son and his family, and here she was - mourning what will never happen. Wow.

I apologized. Sometimes I'm pretty slow.

The list of "nevers" for our kids can be long. Kameron may be eleven, but believe it or not, things like his inability to walk, run, play "real" basketball, swim, rollerskate, ride a scooter--these loses are just now starting to dawn on me. It's like all these years have been spent busily keeping him alive and striving for immediate goals. Things like keeping food down, breathing, and talking - these were his developmental milestones. At least as far as I was concerned.

Lately, though, I'm grieving those losses for him, and for me. All the things traditional parents of special kids have to work through over the years, as their baby grows up and they find something else he or she should be doing, but can't, I'm just now figuring out. Just now seeing the very wide chasm between Kameron and his peers in 5th grade. And it sucks.

But underlying that suckiness is the very strong awareness that if it's this hard for me, this late in the game, how much harder would it have been to feel him grow in my uterus, kicking and swimming around in there, anticipating his arrival, choosing names, talking to him as he grew, having baby showers, fixing up his room...and then have all that crash around me when everything goes completely wrong.

And then it keeps on going wrong, despite your best efforts for your child. That list begins to form.

This is not to say that parenting a special needs child is a thankless, hopeless task. It simply isn't. And most of us will tell anyone that. We celebrate all the tiny victories - and I think that makes us grateful people.

But, it is a grieving thing, too. Our entire belief system has to adjust and change. Dreams for the future of our child need to be adjusted and reevaluated. Our whole world is turned upside down and inside out, and it takes time - maybe a lifetime - to get used to it. Because the reality is that the upside down, inside out world is our new home.

Whether we chose it, or it chose us. Better head on down to Target and get some stuff to make it cozy.

Love -

Big Dreams

2011-01-17T08:44:00.000-08:00

I have big dreams for my little family. My older group - Kris, Kelsey, Elesha, and Kaleb - are all out of the house and pretty well on their ways. But for the three still at home - Klaryssia, Kameron, and Kobi - I have dreams.

The older kids all had pretty "typical" kid lives. Kris and Kelsey were involved in sports. Kris (Rain) played basketball and football through high school, both in school and on Colorado's version of AAU. He had a football and basketball scholarship for college. Kelsey did club gymnastics for many years, then switched to competitive and school cheering through her Senior year.

They went to dances, roller skated, and hung out with friends. We traveled all over Colorado, Nevada, and California for various tournaments and competitions - for both of them. In short, despite the decidely non-traditional family I built around them (the "original Rainwaters), I managed to give them a pretty well-rounded, fun upbringing. And they are really great young adults. I'm beyond proud of them.

But, these younger three haven't had those opportunities.

Most of their lives have been wrapped around Kameron and his intense medical needs. Months and months of their childhoods have been spent in waiting for Kam and me to go into the hospital; get out of the hospital; heal up from the last hospital visit; get ready for the next hospital visit.

Therapies, getting school arranged, getting medications (you'd be surprised how much time the whole prescription process can eat up); then just the regular stuff of regular life: laundry, grocery shopping, meal preparation and eating, keeping up on housework, homework (for Kobi), blah blah blah!

They haven't had too many opportunities for things like going to the Y to swim. Just heading down to the mall to walk around, or going for a family drive on a Sunday after church and maybe stopping off for fish and chips...or for after-school activities like the school carnival, or neighborhood movie night.

I'd like to enroll Kobi in martial arts classes, or drama. Definitely drama. Klaryssia could go to the Special programs they have for Special young adults at our local parks and rec department.

They are getting older, and I feel like the window I have for helping create childhood memories and experiences is slipping away for them. We spend most of our non-school/non-medical appointment time at home. Mostly because it's just so darned hard to get out. Things like helping Kam on and off a toilet take time - and when you are out, using a public restroom isn't the easiest - but it is possible.

But the biggest barrier is really the transportation. To be able to just lower a ramp, wheel him into a van, and strap everyone up and go? That sounds like a dream to me.

I can't wait. Thanks to everyone helping make this happen - thanks for caring,

Kathy, Kam, Kobi, and Klaryssia

The Spring Has Gone Out of My Bottom

2011-01-13T05:43:00.003-08:00

I used to think of myself as Tigger. You know, T-I-double Gah Ur? Bouncy, bouncy, something, something, fun fun fun fun fun?

But, lately, the spring has gone out of my bottom.

Maybe it's the getting older thing. Maybe it's the not getting spiritually fed thing. Maybe it's the way too much on my plate thing. But the Tigger-ness I used to have has definitely left the building.

I'm more of an Eeyore, lately. "It'll never work...what's the use? Why am I even trying?" What am I referring to? Fill in the blank - could be school ("What's the use? What good will a degree do me at my age?"). Could be this new notion to raise money for a van for Kameron ("It'll never work. People have too many other important things going on. It's a bad economy..."). Could be the work involved in Kobi's education ("Long division - again??"). Could be the constant work toward Kam's rehabbing, stretching him, trying to get him to bear weight, working with the school, and him: "Why do my hips still hurt?" - no answers. After all these months, I've run dry.

And so it goes. I used to be a glass half-full person, full of hope. And that's what keeps us going, isn't it? The Bible says that: "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life." Proverbs 13:12 NIV

Maybe the problem isn't in the hopes deferred, or in the amount on my plate, or teachers, my own bad attitude, or anyone else. Maybe I'm looking in the wrong places to have the "longing fulfilled." Maybe I'm expecting my longings to be fulfilled by things, by school, by an easier road, or by people. But God wants me to be fulfilled by Him.

Maybe, my Answer is patiently waiting for me to get heartsick from all this deferred "hope" and return to the well of life...

Weather

2011-01-11T09:07:00.000-08:00

My Meteorology teacher asked us to share our most memorable weather event. This is the story I told:

I've been around a few years, so I've experienced a lot of weather. I've also moved several times - from Northern California, to Seattle, to Colorado Springs, and back to Seattle.

Of course, the weather is much different in each of those places, but I must say, Colorado Springs had some serious weather. It could go from a summer snow storm (a late snow in June, one year), to like 90 the next day. The snow would literally steam off the roads under a clear, sunny sky. Thunderstorms, tornadoes, crazy! Actually, it was pretty awesome. From the inside of a safe, dry, warm, place.

But, my most memorable weather event was a snow storm we had in 2002. My family and I lived in a big ranch house out in the country on 12 acres just north of the Springs. Our elevation out there was about 7,300 feet, so our climate was a little different than our neighbors just 5 miles south.
This storm hit hard - temps dropped to around 15 degrees during the day, white-out snow, and it was a wet snow, so everything it landed on froze. Including our power lines.

Uncharacteristically, this storm lasted for a few days, and on the second day, we lost power. Now, this wouldn't be a big deal, we had 2 fireplaces and food, and could cook on top of the Franklin Stove; but I had a foster child, Kenny (now Kameron, my son) who was on a ventilator.

We had two car batteries

acting as a back up to keep him breathing, but they were only good for around 12 hours. At 8 hours w/no power, I started to worry. The storm showed no sign of letting up, and the clock was ticking.

Thankfully, we had a Hello Kitty plug-in phone (Kelsey's) that worked, so I called our local fire department. They offered to bring a generator out to the house, but when they attempted to get it to us, they weren't able to get up our driveway. Our 1/2 mile long dirt road was completely blocked by at least four feet of snow, which was still falling, blowing, and drifting.

I told them I'd walk out to get it. Right. Out I waded into the deepest snow I'd ever seen, sinking up to my hips, eventually crawling on top of it, to try to reach the firemen out there. I lost all sense of direction, and after about thirty minutes, realized I would never make it. I decided to turn back to the house.

I couldn't figure out where it was.

The snow was falling fast and blowing sideways, and I couldn't even see a nearby tree for a landmark. For the first time, I genuinely panicked, and understood how people could get trapped by snowstorms just feet away from their homes and die.

So, I'm sitting there, trying not to freak out, desperately praying and asking for some kind of break in the storm so I could head back to the house, when all of a sudden, I see a dark shape slowly moving through the snow in front of me. It was my 15 year old son, coming out to help.

I've never been so glad to see anyone. We were both covered in frozen snow and freezing - for real - but together, we got back to the house.

After I called the fire department, and let them know we couldn't get out to the street, they contacted the county Search and Rescue team, who sent out a snow cat to pick up my little Kameron and his nurse. They took them out and got him to a hospital, where he stayed, safe and snug, until the storm cleared, our power was restored, and we were unburied enough to go retrieve him.

That was probably my most memorable weather event. I must say I'm glad to be back in rainy, "boring", Seattle. The weather here is very well-behaved. Usually. Of course, there was that time...

Tigers - RAWR!!

2011-01-09T09:24:00.000-08:00

During Kam's convalescence, we shared some quality time. Like six weeks straight of it. Not a bad thing; in fact, aside from the crazy pain management stuff at the front and back ends of it - gratefully now much less - I really enjoyed it.

Kameron is a funny guy. And he's resilient beyond belief. I think I could safely say that he's my hero. He's been through an amazing array of hardship and challenges, but, for the most part, he's pretty cheerful.

One of the things he did during his stay at home, was make up a pet name for me. Literally, a pet name. Somehow, I became his "Tiger". I think it's my hair. I have a lot of it, and it's reddish blonde, and when he was calling me a tiger, he was usually petting my head. He'd also watched the same episode of GoDiegoGo about nine hundred times, and Diego, if you don't know, is big on animals.

So, one time when he called me his Tiger, I responded, "RAWR!". This cracked him up.

"Momma, you're my Tiger"

"RAWR!"

"Momma, are you my Tiger?"

"RAWR!"

"Mom, your'e a tiger..."

Finally, to break this cycle, I said, "And you're my tiger cub!" Kam really loved this. Now, we are officially the Tiger branch of the Rainwater family.

This led me to further exploration. What are tigers like? A quick Wiki search uncovered some of the following factoids:

Tigers, unlike all other species of cat, except Jaguars, love water. They swim. Cool, right?

"Among the big cats, only the tiger and jaguar are strong swimmers; tigers are often found bathing in ponds, lakes, and rivers. Unlike other cats, which tend to avoid water, tigers actively seek it out. During the extreme heat of the day, they often cool off in pools. Tigers are excellent swimmers, able to swim up to 4 miles and carry dead prey across lakes."

SO cool. Especially the carrying dead prey across lakes part.

Tigers also prey on man more than any other big cat:

"Although humans are not regular prey for tigers, they have killed more people than any other cat, particularly in areas where population growth, logging, and farming have put pressure on tiger habitats. Most man-eating tigers are old and missing teeth, acquiring a taste for humans because of their inability to capture preferred prey."

Wait a sec. Old and missing teeth?

Ahh... this is better, in Asia, the Tiger is the King of the Beasts. Well, Queen, in our case.

The tiger replaces the lion as King of the Beasts in cultures of eastern Asia,^[131] representing royalty, fearlessness and wrath.^[132] Its forehead has a marking which resembles the Chinese character 王, which means "king"; consequently, many cartoon depictions of tigers in China and Korea are drawn with 王 on their forehead

Fearlessness, wrath, royalty...now THAT's what I'm talking about.

The Tigress raises her cubs alone - check; they are usually nocturnal - yep, that's called "me time"; and while they can have bursts of speed, but don't have much stamina...well, it does seem that Kam has aptly named me.

Little genius. Rawr.

Finishing

2011-01-08T07:00:00.000-08:00

One of the many somethings that kept me from blogging in 2010 was that I went back to college. Yes, that's correct. This north of forty (I will NOT say how much) single mother of seven, now grandma, went back to college. Some of the biggest regrets in my life revolve around not finishing things.

In high school, way back in the "enlightened" days of the late seventies/early eighties, I was a little too busy finding ways to avoid life to care much about school. I would take days off and head to the beach - such as they are in Northern California - to party, rather than go to classes.

Somehow, I didn't flunk out, but I did get out early, in my Junior year. Not on credits, I took and passed the California Proficiency Exam. Like a GED. There was even a quote in a local paper from me about the test. I think we were the first group, or something. My quote, in my extreme seventeen-year-oldness, was something like, "Well, if you're mature enough, you should be able to get on with life." Ha! Mature. Right. There's nothing so funny as looking back on your younger self and seeing how arrogant and really stupid you were.

Things I miss the most about the high school experience include "unimportant" things like Senior Prom and the Graduation ceremony. At the time, I was a self-proclaimed outcast, and had separated myself from the main herd. I almost convinced myself those things were stupid and boring and unnecessary. There were lots of reasons, and I understand much better now why that was. But, that's not what we're talking about today.

In the mid-nineties, living in Seattle with Kris and Kelsey, ages five and three, and a new(ish) Christian, I felt a call (an almost-irresistible urge followed up by unexplainable confirming acts) to go, of all places, to Colorado Springs to attend Nazarene Bible College. At the time, I was working in the best job of my life. I was the Registered Sales Assistant to a father/son team of high-producing stockbrokers. How the heck I ended up with that amazing job being an "almost" high school graduate with no formal degree is info for another day.

But, I felt this call, and I saw the path, and I went for it. This is not one of the "unfinished things" I regret. In fact, out of all the decisions I've made in my life, this remains one of the ones that feel the most certain. I was supposed to do this and go there.

Years pass, choices are made, and I end up in a ranch house north of Colorado Springs stuffed to the 20-foot cedar-paneled ceilings with kids. Kids of all ages, shapes, sizes, and abilities. Me, who was never going to be a mom. More ha!

But, I didn't finish Bible College. I had three years into a double-major: music and Biblical Studies. I didn't know what I was going to do with it, but I was where I was supposed to be. At the time. When I left, it was to work with the children, and that was another thing I am certain was the right move. But, I always said that if I were to ever get a degree... and strongly encouraged all my children to finish high school and go to college.

Watching my older two do just that has been a joy. And, from this vantage point, the wisdom of all those years of school is perfectly clear - and missing it, one of those regrets we seem to accumulate as we age.

So, here I am. Finishing. My classes are online, and I should have the credits to transfer to the University of Washington in the Fall of 2011. If they'll have me. Grades are good, I'm loving learning, and over-achieving (according to Kelsey, who got straight A's last semester, I try too hard). The goal is a BA in English.

I refuse to think about how silly this all is. When thoughts of what are you DOING?? seep into my brain like a toxic fog, I just turn up the music on my i-Pod. I will finish this. Whatever the outcome is, I will detach from it, and trust that the reasons will someday be evident. If nothing else, I will enjoy the ride. And I WILL finish this.

Baby Tessa is here!!

2011-01-05T09:09:00.000-08:00

Another lengthy silence - sorry everyone, it was a horribly busy year. Not bad, just busy.

But, the terrific news is that Rain & Kami's

beautiful baby girl, Tessa Jean, was born on her due date, December 11th, 2010. She weighed 8'8oz. and was 21" long. Wonderfully healthy, and so alert... Here's an early pic:

This was in the hospital when she was about 4 hours old - that's Rain's hand. Isn't she amazing???

I got to fly down to Arizona to meet her (and see Rain & Kami, of course) a few days after she was born. My wonderful, sweet, kind, tremendous (is that enough superlatives? Maybe a few more...), thoughtful, loving, responsible, and incredibly competent daughter Kelsey took over the homefront so I could leave. That's saying a lot, since Kameron is still rehabbing from his hip surgery (I may post about that later), and if you've read any of my previous posts, you know Kobi and Klaryssia can be a bit...um...draining. Not that I don't love them, of course!

Any way, I got to go to meet this, my first little Rainwater Granddaughter. And she is so precious. It was very hard leaving her there. I'm not super-experienced with extended family - my family is pretty much the group God's given me, my Dad and Mom live in other states, uncles and aunts are distant, and not super-communicative, no cousins to speak of, etc. So, having my crew around me is important. Having Kami, Kris, and now the baby in Arizona is just a major adjustment.

I'm sure I'll manage, but it's sad.

Here are some more pics for you to see!!

I know, it's disgusting how beautiful they are... ;-)

Breaking the Silence

2010-10-20T11:51:00.000-07:00

Hi again - yes, I am back...no promises about tomorrow, though!

I'm in school, working away at my BA in English. I think both my older kids will graduate before me, I am ALMOST a junior. But, I'm totally fine with that. The following is an exercise I did for my Creative Writing class. I have Kris's permission to share.

Back in the late ‘80s, I lived in the basement half of a house split into two apartments with my son, Kristopher. He was a baby then, and we were separated from his dad, my husband, for a bunch of reasons not important to this story. The apartment was the best I could afford. It was on Henderson Avenue South in Seattle, just off Rainier Avenue, one block east of Chubby and Tubby, home of the famous $5.98 Christmas tree. The house was built around World War II, and the sunshine yellow paint job appeared to be at least that old. It had moss-tinged white trim and a sloping gray roof that was missing shingles. The yellow was a selling point for me.

A scraggly string of dusty gardenia bushes limped along the west side of the house where our kitchen window and front door looked out onto a dirt alley which was all that separated us from the open carport space under the Asian market that faced Rainier. I remember feeding my son in his high chair and looking out at dope fiends shooting each other up under the shelter of that carport, and finding abandoned, bent needles lying in our front yard.

The apartment itself was in decent shape. At least the front door closed and locked, and the air gap under it wasn’t too bad. One towel shoved under it did the trick, except on the coldest nights. The windows facing south looked out on a lumpy, overgrown, tired yard that had one tree in it. I think it was an apple, but no fruit ever grew on it - at least not during our time living there. The yard was the other selling point for me. For some reason, I thought my infant son needed a yard, way before he could even walk.

The number seven Metro bus stopped right on the corner of Henderson and Rainier, which was convenient, because I worked downtown, and Kris’s daycare was there, too. I remember the two of us, all bundled up against the cold and dark of the Northwest mornings, baby gear packed into a diaper bag, work shoes jammed into a book bag, both hanging on the handle of the stroller by plastic baby Boomerang Links in cheerful primary colors. My son, tucked in securely under a layer of blankets and wearing a puffy jacket, would ride crammed up against the crossbar of the stroller and would kick his heels in joy against the foot rests as we bumped up the dirt alley – me praying we’d miss early shift of die-hard junkies - to catch the 5:00 am bus, Mondays through Fridays.

I would drop him off at his daycare at the First United Methodist Church on the corner of Marion and 5th Avenue, then walk the five blocks north and two blocks east to my office at the old One Union Square Building, where my work day at the brokerage firm began at 6:30am. At lunch time, I’d reverse the route to go play with him and feed him, then power walk back to the office. I never needed a gym membership, back then.

One time I remember best was his first birthday. He was born two days after New Year’s, and it fell on the first work day back from the Holiday weekend, this particular year. It was traditional to bring a birthday cake into the daycare center to share with the group. But we had no money for a bakery cake. Actually, we had no money for a cake mix. I decided to bake a cake from scratch. No, two cakes: one for home and one for the daycare.

I began with a search for my one and only cookbook, the Red Betty Crocker one. There weren’t too many places to search in that small apartment, and I finally found it in an unpacked box in the storage space under my bed. My son joined the search, crawling along on the floor behind me, and climbing up on my back and hitting me in the head with a toy truck while I rummaged through the box. After I found it, I around on my stomach and opened the book right there, on the musty smelling carpet in the middle of the bedroom floor, Kristopher banging away next to me. “What’s it going to take, little man? Do we have the stuff?” On to the kitchen we went to find out.

“Eggs, flour, butter (well, Crisco should be fine), vanilla (imitation), baking powder, salt, sugar, and milk. Check. We’re on baby! Oops, what about pans?” More rummaging around turned up some old aluminum lasagna pans. “This will work,” I told him. More banging of the truck, accompanied by giggles and drool bubbles. “I’m going to mix both in one bowl, to save time.” An hour later, after much measuring and mixing – by hand, no mixer back then – the first lopsided pan went into the oven. While we waited, we played, Kris blowing bubbles and laughing while I made car sounds, stopping every so often for a tickle break.

Outside, across the alley, a group of junkies huddled together against the January cold and shared needles.

In our little house, we shared warm Bisquick-tasting birthday cake, and celebrated our first year together.

We're having a baby. Or, "Grandmom's Night Out"?

2010-04-25T08:44:00.000-07:00

So, the BIG news is, I am going to be a Grandmother. That is the strangest sentence I've ever written. I don't even feel like a bona-fide mom sometimes. I still have three kids at home, for cryin' out loud!!

But, indeed, it is a factoid. Or a factoid to be.

This baby is coming from Kami and Kris, of course (or thankfully!). You may remember they got married last July...yes, it's soon for a baby, but they are excited and I know they will make great parents. I've seen them both with children. Especially mine. Believe me, if someone can handle the oddness of my "special" kids with grace and fun, they will make a tremendous parent.

And these two do.

Kris has always had an accepting and loving heart towards all the kids we've had through our crazy home over the years. I started fostering when he was eight. He grew up with run away teen-aged girls (I don't think one of them stayed put), raging boys with Muscular Dystrophy (he used to ram people with his electric wheelchair), and a variety of children needing diapers, assistive devices, feeding tubes, and more.

When Kameron (then Kenny) came into our house at the age of one, on a ventilator and trached, it was fifteen year old Kris who treked up to Denver Children's Hospital with me to learn how to disassemble and reassemble the ventilator. They required this before discharging Kenny to us, even though we had 24 hour nurses lined up. Kris learned, along with me, how to suction Kenny's trach so he wouldn't choke to death on his own mucus (sorry, it's a little graphic); and the amazing thing is, Kris had no problem with this - at least he never once complained or balked.

Once we got Kenny back to our house for good, a process that took about a month, I remember Kris standing over the huge red medical crib looking down on him through all the breathing tubes. Kenny was sucking on his fingers and looking around the room - very calm and quiet, and kicking his feet. Kris said, "You know, how do people complain about things? Look at him . . . if anyone ever had a reason to complain and be mad, it's him. And he's so happy. . ."

Pretty wise for fifteen. Pretty wise for any age.

As for Kami, his beautiful bride, she lived with us before they got married. Kris was in Oregon, playing basketball and taking a few classes, and Kami was going through Gene Juarez training school (to get licensed as a stylist), so she lived in our home - right there she gets bravery points. I mean, living with your future mother-in-law and her kids?? Especially my special kids.

She was terrific. Sweet, funny, completely real, and she had no problem with my munchkins. Kami is the real deal.

If she can handle all of us - she can handle anything.

I'm sure they wanted a little more alone time as a couple - it's pretty soon - but babies are a visual, breathing token of your love. How awesome is that? A little person made from each of you - wow.

To both of you: I am so proud to be your mom and mom-in-law. For the record, I think you two will be wonderful, caring, fun parents. And I am sure that you will have the time of your lives raising your kids...

Remember, you are never alone. God has gotten all of us this far, and He won't leave you now.

Oh, and EVERYONE is excited to be aunts and uncles. Let us know how we can help.

We love!

Children Should Be Heard . . .

2010-04-22T06:30:00.000-07:00

I was pondering childhood this morning. Just kind of wandering down memory lane (which is a little like finding your way through the scary woods in the Wizard of Oz). I thought about how my parents parented me, and about the adults in my life in general, the attitude their generation had toward children.

One of the big sayings then was, "children should be seen and not heard." Like, ever?

You mean when my big brother is "playing" with me, say, throwing darts at me, you want me to just stay meek and well-mannered? Or, say kids at school are calling me really nasty names, spitting at me, putting gum on my seat - then? Should I be "seen and not heard" then, too?

I know I'm not the only casualty of this "method" of parenting. In fact, I know that both my parents thought that was the appropriate way to raise children. Isn't that how their mother and father raised them? I'm not saying they weren't loving. And, I think my generation has swung WAY the other way in compensating. We tend to treat our children like little kings and queens, and have a real problem with young adults that have no boundaries, no discipline, and no respect for anyone. There's a difference between respecting a child and giving him or her everything they want. That's a whole 'nother discussion.

I just think that we need to treat our children - all of them - as people. To respect their individuality, try to help them discover who they were made to be - do they love art? Do they love words, music, football? All of the above?

Again, I don't mean let's haul them all over creation in clubs and all sorts of after-school junk. There's a balance here. And really, while it's important to help them uncover their talents, it's even more important to give them that sense of belonging here. To give them that sense of mattering that all of us need so desperately.

That's something anyone can give a child, by the way. That favorite teacher you remember? What is it that makes him or her so memorable? I'll tell you why I still remember Mrs. Israel, my third grade teacher (and I will NOT tell you how long ago that was). She paid attention to me. When she talked to me, it was to me, not to one of her students. She wasn't especially "nice" or "sweet", in fact, she was kind of abrupt and direct, but she so obviously thought of us little third graders as small people. As individuals with opinions and dreams and lives of our own. And we mattered to her. It was so unusual that she stands out sharply in the sea of adults that surrounded my childhood.

I've had little kids who've met me one time (like on a field trip) come up to me the following year, remember my name, and say hi. One little girl who rode my son's bus last year actually wrote me a little note:

Hey folks, all I did was say good morning to her at the bus every day and I get this awesome note! Whose little life can you impact today? It doesn't take much...

Trace Adkins performs "You're Gonna Miss This" at the Grand Ole Opry - Part ONE see below!

2010-04-20T07:31:00.000-07:00

You're Gonna Miss This-Part Two

2010-04-20T05:39:00.000-07:00

Back in 2007-2008, Country singer, Trace Adkins came out with a song (yes I listen to country, settle down) called, You're Gonna Miss This. The song coincided with a bunch of big changes in my/our lives: Kelsey was graduating, Kris was going down to Oregon to finish school, and was engaged. . . and I was still trying to recover from the rapid moves/losses/craziness of the years between October, 2005 (when Kameron was diagnosed) to then.

Now I find myself trying to reconcile all that stuff, all those years, and despite the extreme toughness of them, I find that I do, in fact, miss that.

I miss the Big House on Vollmer Road; the crazy Colorado weather (I mean, blizzards in October? Ice storms in July?); the space we had - antelopes and falcons and coyotes - o my! I miss the excitement of the kids and the challenge of taking care of all of them (at one point, I think we had three adults and at least twelve kids); I miss middle-school football with Kris; driving all over the state to watch Kelsey at a gymnastics meet; I miss my dog, Cody (best yellow lab EVER); I miss the quiet Colorado morning when the sun was just coming up and the huge house was still and everything seemed possible. . . I miss it.

It's funny how life can seem so crazy and hard while you're living it, but when you look back, they were some great times. Maybe the goal is to keep remembering that each day. Today is that day - the one you're gonna miss. Peace, peeps.

Here's What You've Been Missing:

2010-04-01T17:23:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, another long silence. Like since Thanksgiving. Well, I've been busy, okay?? All the hustle and bustle around the Rainwater manse. . .things are happening! I don't have always have time to sit down in front of my computer, you know.

Take tonight for instance:

I'm sitting here watching Kameron watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. It's the only show he'll ever watch. And boy, will he watch it. He will watch it on the couch; he will watch it on the floor; he will watch it on the computer; he will watch it on the big screen; he will watch it on a house, he will watch it on a mouse, he will watch it here or there... he will watch it anywhere (apologies to Dr. Seuss).

If you aren't familiar, MMC is a show geared toward pre-schoolers. It's got fun and annoyingly perky music, all Mickey's pals (even Pete, the "villain"), some puzzles the kids help Mickey solve, and lots of other cleverly disguised learning opportunities.

Kam, at age ten, is a bit older than the demographic. But, since he's lost a few years - like five or six - and since he wasn't ever supposed to talk, read, sit up, eat on his own . . . live. . . I think his love of Mickey is just fine.

He talks back to the screen. In fact, he just said, "Oh Toodles" along with the gang.

He tells Mickey which mystery Mouseka-tool to use ("the feather") to tickle the baby elephant, and generally stays absorbed the entire 24 minutes.

He decides what character we all are. Kam is, of course, Mickey. I am Minnie some days, Daisy on others, and refuse to be Clarabell the Cow. She has the most annoying voice. Kobi is Donald (Kobi WISHES he was Donald. He wants to quack); Kelsey is whatever female I'm not - usually Daisy - and Klaryssia is Clarabell by default. Then comes Kris as Goofy (I think its the height); and finally our little yappy dog is Pluto.

Oh, we've just decided that the giraffe is short enough to fit into the clubhouse. Daisy is naming him Longfellow...

I think I need to get out more.

It could be worse. He could love that purple dinosaur -- who shall remain unnamed.

Is it Just Me?

2009-11-23T18:44:00.000-08:00

My kids are mega-spoiled. They are more demanding than rock stars who want their water a specific temperature and all the green M&Ms picked out of the bowls before they arrive.

"I need the blue bowl. Did you give me the blue bowl?"

"What color is my cup?"

"We are out of ice cream. When are you going to the store, Mom?"

"I want Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Go to the store, Mom."

"No toilet paper."

"Did you record Mickey Mouse Clubhouse?"
"Today is my bath day. I want to take it with Kobi.
I want to be in the frontnoIwanttobeinthefrontnoit'smyturnnoit'smyturnnoit'smine. ItsMINEEEE"

So when I was cruising through some old pics I have stored on Shutterfly.com from ages ago, like eight years or so, I was pleased to find that they stirred up some mommy-appropriate emotions. Tell me what you think...keep 'em?

Why Foster? Here's Why...

2009-11-20T12:13:00.000-08:00

I dare you not to cry. . . I DARE you!

A letter to all my parents:

I was going to start by saying I’m sorry that I waited so long to write this letter to say thank you. The delay means that some of you will have left this earth before I got to say these words to you - I hope I have the opportunity to say them to you in Another Place. But I realize that my thanks would have been incomplete if I had voiced them before. I would probably still have been angry at some of you and perhaps not have recognized the sacrifices you had made. I’m sure I still don’t fully comprehend all that you have done for me, but I probably never will know in full while on this earth, so well, now’s the time to take the time.

To my birth parents:

Seems strange to write to people I don’t even know, even further to be thankful and grateful to someone I've never seen and someone I cannot remember. Thank you for choosing to give me life. Oh I know, my conception probably wasn’t a conscious choice on your part, but allowing me to continue to live, giving me birth was most definitely a choice you made. You may try to say that in “those days” you didn’t have a choice, but you and I both know better than that. I admire you so much for making that choice, for choosing the harder path. I don’t know what it cost you to make that choice, but know that I know how much courage that took. I wish I could have known you and gleaned some of that bravery from you, so that I could have been strong enough to make that right choice myself.

To my foster parents:

I don’t know what you were thinking when you got me at 18 months of age. Since my birth mom was still alive I’m sure you just thought you’d have me for a few days. But things didn’t work out that way, did they? That short-term commitment you were willing to make turned into something much longer. And year after year while I remained in your home, you got attached. I gave nicknames to your birth children that they still have to this day, you placed my picture in your hallway; somehow it felt like I had become yours.

And yet, when my birth mom died when I was four, all of a sudden everything you had done for me didn’t matter - you had poured yourself into me and yet you didn’t have a voice, a say in my future. Because you were a foster parent, you had to stand back and allow biological family members to step in and take me away from you.

I heard that before me you had fostered over 30 kids and after I left you just didn’t have the heart to do it anymore. I didn’t understand that before, but now I know why - it was because you had given me your heart, I had taken it with me. I have it now, it’s taken me awhile to give it a voice, but I know I have your heart. For you see, I long to be a foster parent as well, to do as you did. To love a child, who through no fault of their own, has no one and feels as if there is no one who cares and to say to them, “you are someone. For as long as you’re with me - a few hours, for a few days, weeks or even years, you matter, you belong, you are not abandoned and unloved, you are precious, you are priceless, you are valuable simply because you’re you”.

Thank you for showing me that, for giving me that. I don’t know what it cost you to do that, but know that words cannot express my gratefulness.

To my adoptive parents:

Seems strange to call you that, for to me you have always been just “my parents”. I never knew any differently - which speaks volumes about just what kind of parents you are. There was never any question that I was yours. I know there was a day you told me that I wasn’t biologically yours, but funny how I don’t remember it. Something that huge should have impacted my life dramatically - but it didn’t - because YOU had already impacted my life dramatically. By making me your own, by never allowing your boys to call me “cousin” but making them call me “sister”. I wonder, did you have that conversation with them? Did you ever ask them if they wanted a little sister? Did you ever ask yourself if you really wanted to raise a fifth child, so much younger than the ones you were already raising?

But even as I ask that, I know the answer - you didn’t ask those questions - you knew that if you didn’t step in I would become a ward of the state. And you were my family and you were not going to allow that to happen - no matter what the cost to you. You didn’t ask questions, you took action, you didn’t complain about the unfairness of it all, you worked toward a solution. Thank you for that, thank for you never making me feel like I was a problem, an inconvenience, a burden to bear. Thank you for loving me as your own while still allowing me to freely learn about my birth parents and my foster parents, those who had chosen to love me before you did.

To my Heavenly Parent:

I know You knew me first, even before I was conceived. I know You knew the path my life would take, even before I ever took my first steps. And though some may say it’s been a hard life, I wouldn’t have wanted anything different. I am so thankful for every parent You gave to help care for me on this earth. Each of them, perhaps even unbeknownst to them, has each in their own way, revealed You to me.

Because my birth mother chose to give me life, I now know that You are the Way, the Truth and the Life.

Because my foster parents cared for me when no one else would, I know that You care for me, especially because I was an orphan.

Because my adoptive parents welcomed me into their family so completely, I know unconditional love and can believe You when You tell me You want to adopt me as well.

Funny, of all of my parents, You are the only One who has told me what it cost You, yet You don’t make me feel guilty for that. You tell me only so I can know without a doubt how much You love me.

So to all my parents I say thank you - some kids only have a few parents, I was blessed to have many. And my prayer is that my gratefulness will be translated into action. That I can take the love given me by all of you and not just hold it all in for myself, but to pour it out to others. To allow your love to continue to flow, from you, through me to others. Please know you made and continue to make a difference in my life and as a result, by the grace of God, a difference in this world.

I love you,

Valerie

I've been a foster parent for fifteen years, and one of the most common comments I get is "How do you do it?" This letter - NOT addressed to me, by the way - is how. Because foster and adoptive parents DO make a difference. It only takes one: one child, one parent; to change the course of a life. Think about it. =)

Traveling

2009-11-17T17:25:00.000-08:00

This is an article written by Emily Perl Kingsley many moons ago. I first heard it at some continuing ed course in Colorado. Emily Perl Kingsley has a son, Jason, with Down Syndrome. She is also an Emmy award winning writer - for Sesame Street, twelve times. She was instrumental in writing scripts for Sesame Street that were inclusive. You can learn more about her here.

Welcome To Holland
by Emily Perl Kingsley

I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with disability - to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It's like this......

When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland."

"Holland?!?" you say. "What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy."

But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay.

The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place.

So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

It’s just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around.... and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills....and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy... and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned."

And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away...because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.

But... if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things ... about Holland

This article's been on my mind alot lately. Not just because I have children with special needs, but because I think this illustrates a great truth. How many of us spend the first half of our lives saving, planning, and preparing for our trip to Italy and end up in Holland? Or Russia? Or, we hop on that plane, travel for days and deplane right back where we started? Life is so rarely predictable. It wiggles and squirms and refuses to be pinned down.

It seems like we all have the choice to take the time to look around for the tulips and the Rembrandts; for the very special and lovely things about Holland. Or Chicago. Or Sussex. Or wherever your plane landed.

Besides, Italy can't be all that awesome! Can it?

Funny the Way it Is...

2009-11-12T05:38:00.001-08:00

Kelsey called me yesterday. I was glad to hear from her. As she and Kris get more and more secure in their adult lives, the phone calls get more and more spread out, I've noticed. Not that that's a bad thing. Just different. Elesha makes up for it, though.

She was excited, talking about a new assignment for one of her classes. It's for Interpretive Reading and the assignment (as I understand it) involves her compiling a variety of information into an essay-type format and then reading/acting it out for her class.

Kelsey chose to write about Addiction for this one.

Yippee.

I never kept any major secrets from Kelsey and Kris as they grew up - not that I sat them down and brought them up to speed with all the fun-filled antics of my past. But, I always felt it was important to be honest with them about mistakes I've made, which would hopefully impress on them the incredible damage we humans can inflict upon ourselves and others as we go through life. You know, "make good choices!"

By that I mean I filled them in on my teen-aged and early adult years. They know about my excessive drug use and "partying". They know about their father's heroin and cocaine addiction. They know some of what that mess looked like in my relationship with him, and in their early lives, too. And they know how God kept yanking me back from the precipice. I was determined to die - slowly and by any means - He evidently had other plans and ultimately revealed Himself to me.

He saved me.

So, here is my Kelsey away at a Christian University. Interwoven with her academic classes for her Communications/Drama major are classes in Bible and Chapel.

And I get these calls. And we talk.

She's researching the Addiction presentation, and reading Tweaked by Nic Shef. It's his memoir on his descent into Meth addiction. As he put it, "growing up on methamphetamines". Along the way, he tried every other drug he could get his hands on, and talks about how de-humanizing that life is.

"Is that what it was like, Mom?"

"Yep."

"Oh, momma..."

"I know, honey. It was beyond hellish."

"But, look where you are now."

"Oh, I know that, too. Trust me."

But do I? Do I really remember where I am now? Maybe this many years out (it's been almost as long as Kesley's been alive), I get absent-minded about where I was and where I was most definitely headed. Much of who I am today, many of the reasons I care so deeply about my family, my children, is fiercely entangled in who I was when I finally turned to God.

Beyond saving.

I thought so. I was determined to get rid of my pain one way or another. I was racing toward that cliff edge.

He got in the way.

Twenty years out, the intensity of that has faded. I forget from whence I've come. I forget how messed up, how far gone I was.

Meanwhile, I have this daughter discovering God. I'm watching her draw near to Him, listening to her talk about Him - telling me about things I used to know so clearly. Her deepening relationship with God reminds me how much I'm missing, invites me back to the warmth of His fire, offers me a blanket and a place to rest.

Now, will I take that blanket? Am I finally ready to rest?

There's the rub. I don't know if I am. I can see the fire and am drawn to it's heat - I am freezing out here. But something keeps me back. Some stubborn part of me resists the comfort I know I'll find. I'm sitting on a log by myself. Just sitting. In the cold.

What am I waiting for? No clue. Therapist Lisa would tell me to stop wondering what I'm waiting for and just get my butt over to the fire...hummmm I'll have to think about that.

What if?

2009-11-09T07:00:00.001-08:00

There's a really cool guy who's written this book called: Stuff Christians Like.

His blog, also called SCL, had a post today that I want to share with you folk who read my blog.

I think it's a worthy idea and wanted to put it out here for all of you to see and decide if you'd like to help. Many folk spending little money make for much money that can do a good work.

Please take a moment to check it out:

What if?

Posted using ShareThis

Wordle Fun

2009-11-07T15:30:00.000-08:00

Speaking of jumbled words. . .

I found this site, www.wordle.net through a new blog I'm following: To the Max

Max is Ellen and Dave's very special son. He had a stroke at birth and so he's got some stuff to overcome, but he's doing an amazing job!

I love the word cloud/tag cloud idea. Predictably, my blog has a ton of Kameron, children, kids and Kobi. Not that surprisingly there are a few buses, and homes, and schools. I am sad that God isn't bigger - but again, I guess it's not so surprising. I haven't been talking about Him much lately. . .

Both sites are worth a look. Enjoy!

HUGE disclaimer here

2009-11-06T08:11:00.000-08:00

I need to apologize to my readers, but I have NO way to fix the formatting issues that are now appearing in all my past posts. At this point, most of them have lost all their paragraph breaks and read like one huge block of words.

I am SO sorry - this is not how I wrote and published them originally. I am trying to find a solution. That may mean moving to a different Blog host (which I really want to avoid).

Please bear with me, and I am again, so sorry that they look like inexperienced lumps of verbiage.

Kathy

Me Who Used to Be Queen

2009-11-05T07:31:00.000-08:00

I haven't exactly made it a secret that parenting - always a rough road - has taken an unexpected detour OFF road lately. My three kids still at home (aka the "little" kids) seem to have made maps of their own including some major potholes, dips, and a bunch of dirt roads. And I don't have a four-wheel drive anymore.

I think Kam's has a street or two that have "DANGER ROAD CLOSED AHEAD" on his map. And he's all into the adventure of finding out what happens when you make mommie drive down them at high speeds.
See, since the "big" kids have all moved out, I have no more buffer between myself and the remaining children of the corn sleeping under my roof. No one is on my side (I'm not allowed to have one anymore). My older kids were pretty darned respectful. I only had to say "no" a few times for them to get it. They didn't ask, "whhhhyyyy?????" every time I asked them to do something, or just flat out ignore any words coming out of my mouth. Even when spoken directly into his or her ear.
Seriously, they were pretty decent kids.

As they grew up, they helped the smaller fry stay on track. When Klaryssia, Kobi, or Kameron would question me incessently (and I'm talking twenty-plus times), a larger kid like Kesley, Elesha, Kris or Kami, would set them straight. You don't talk to Mom like that. There are consequences, come on, let's go play basketball in your room. .

No more.

My royal guard has abandoned me. I am on my own. Why is this just sinking in, you ask? After all, the last big kid left in August. Yeah, well I'm a bit of a slow study. At some level, I think I figured ALL my children - since they were raised in the same house, with the same rules - would catch on, fall under my spell, and magically behave like reasonable people. Eventually.

Wrong
Wrong.
Wrong.

I've been thrown back into parenting 101. Maybe I'm not even in a 100 level course yet. Maybe this is a 60 or an 80. Or maybe this is a graduate level deal. Maybe this is God's Phd. course in parenting. . .taking me to the upper-echelon of moms. . .

Nah. This is either remedial parenting or purgatory. Maybe the Catholics are right, after all.

Even as I type this, at o-dark-thirty in the a.m., Klaryssia has come out at least four times to tell me the weather report for the day (I don't care), show me what she's wearing (ditto), to tell me she's brushed her teeth (check), and to explain to me her schedule for the day (again); Kameron (up since 5:20 am) is explaining to everyone that he does NOT have a doctor's appointment (he does), telling Klaryssia that she needs to take her meds (she already did), and I can hear him taking off the floor vent in the bathroom, probably shoving his clothes for the day down it; Kobi is trying to convince him that he does have an appointment, (pointless, Kobi, you are wasting your words, trust me), asking me how to turn regular instant oatmeal into brown sugar oatmeal, and dragging his wet bedding out to the washer (while asking why "we" haven't washed his wet sheets from yesterday - "we" were working all day, master and haven't had a chance to get to your damp bedding); and the noise is escalating.

These skirmishes occur constantly. If they are up, they are fighting about something. Anything. Everything. Last night it got so bad I wanted to leave the house.

Not an option, though. Failing that, I grabbed a glass of wine and my Ipod, found the loudest playlist I could find, and sang my way through dinner prep. All through it, they kept popping into the kitchen (guess that's because with the blessed music playing, I couldn't hear them yelling, "MOM"). It was awesome, because their little mouths were opening and closing and I couldn't hear a word.

Santana Danced me Through the Night, Grits had me Runnin', and Kenny Chesney reminded me about the sweet Summertime. . .

I know I keep harping on this, but seriously I've been blindsided. I foolishly thought I had a handle on parenting. After all, I ran a home daycare; I raised my own two kids; I fostered countless others - at one point our big house in Colorado had four adults, fifteen children, and almost that many pets. We survived snow storms, power outages (when Kam was on a ventilator), dying chickens, a horse that peed on the front lawn, multiple bus and school schedules, and still found a way to have Kelsey in competitive gymnastics, Kris in basketball and football, and everyone else at their myriad doctors and therapy appointments.

Now here I am, crushed and bewildered by these three.
It doesn't seem right. Somewhere in my brain there must be skills I can use against these heathens. And when I figure out what they are, and my heathens become children again, I will be expecting my Peace Prize.

Or at the very least, a little peace. Which is probably better.
I could use the million bucks, though.

The Daily Grind

2009-11-02T09:32:00.000-08:00

This parenting gig is hard. I mean, I had a suspicion during the first twenty odd years. But, with this second group of kids (ages 17, almost 10, and 9), I am certain.

'Course, there are a few differences with this second group. The most glaring being that I am now twenty years older. Initially, I thought that should give me an edge. You know, I know the little ways kids try to manipulate you, have all the pat parenting answers down -

But these three defy my mom logic.

They aren't logical at all.

When you take three "damaged" kids, with a variety of issues and stir them all up in one household what comes out is a complete crapshoot. And by crap I mean the other word. Take Kameron at this very moment.

We have an ongoing power struggle between Kameron and Kobi over who opens the gate on our way out to the bus stop. They were alternating days, but believe it or not, that got too difficult to keep track of. So, in my infinite *cough cough* wisdom, I came up with alternating weeks. Mon/Wed/Friday one week, and Tues/Thursday the next.

This seemed to work for awhile. Kam just required one or two reminders, "What days do you have this week, Kam?"

"Oh. . . (insert correct days here)".

But lately he's been slipping. This morning, he argued for a good ten minutes that Kobi had Monday/Wednesday/Friday last week (which he didn't), and that Kameron himself was Monday/Wednesday/Friday this week (again). Evidently, he's wised up to the fact that Tuesday/Thursday is not the greater deal.

It went like this:

"Mom, can I open the gate?"

"No, Kam, Kobi is Monday/Wednesday/Friday this week."
"EHHHHEEAAAA!! Kobi is NOT Monday/Wednesday/Friday, I AM!"

"What days were you last week, Kam?"
EHHHHHEEEAAAAAA!!!"
"What days, Kam?"

"I was NOT Monday Wednesday/Friday!!!"
"Kam..."
"It's MY day to OPEN THE GATE!"
"Kam, what days are you this week?"
"IT's MY DAY! I am NOT Tuesday/Thursday!"

And so on, for about ten minutes. While I'm trying to get him on and off the toilet (I know, TMI) and get his AFOs on and get his teeth brushed and get him in his wheelchair. He also has this endearing habit of stiffening his entire 75 pound body when he's yelling. This makes all of the above ever so much easier.

I finally wised up and said, "Hey Kobi, you get to open the gate all week! Kam doesn't want his Tuesday/Thursday!"
"I do TOOOOO!"
"Oh, so you want to open the gate Tuesday/Thursday?"
"Yes".

Peace is momentarily restored.

This lasted until it was time to turn off Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and head out the door to the bus stop.

"EHHHHEEAAAAAAA! Do NOT turn off Mickey Mouse Clubhouse!!!"
"Okay, I'll just let Teacher Parnell know you aren't coming to school today, then. I'm walking Kobi to the bus stop, see you later, Kam."
"NO!"
"Oh, you're coming, then?"

And once again, peace is restored. Just like flipping a light switch, he's happy and deceptively compliant.

This crazytown adventure in parenting goes on every day in some fashion or another. Kameron and Klaryssia can pick the most seemingly unimportant, random thing and escalate it into a UN-sized crisis. My "normal" bag of parenting tricks applies not at all. And when the two of them feed off each other and Kobi thinks it would be fun to stir them up . . . I'm thinking 7:00 am is not too early for a glass of white wine.

I guess the biggest thing is that while engaging in power struggles with them obviously won't work, often neither does trying to twist their logic around. These kids have stubborn down to an art form - it's why they've survived so long against all the odds - and when they bring it to bear on me. . .argh.

Once again, the inmates are running the asylum. I think I need a vacation. Is it too late to turn these kids in for some nice grandchildren?

BTW I am having trouble with the new Blogger Editor - it's not formatting the text like it should, I do apologize for the odd layout!

I Have a Confession. . .

2009-10-25T10:52:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make: I haven't been to church in months. Really, months. Since Rain's wedding in July. That's a very long time.

Why?

Lots of reasons, I think. None of them good, none of them important enough to keep me from worshipping in fellowship with other believers. I think.

Maybe it's just enough trouble within my heart and just enough difficulty getting there. I still haven't re-established a healthy communication with God; still not praying/talking with Him regularly; still not "in the Word" as we Christians like to say. . . I used to devour His Word. Literally eat it up.

I miss that.

I miss talking with Him and hearing from Him.

So, why am I resisting? No clue.

I haven't stopped believing. I know He's real. I know He is good. I've walked with Him for twenty years. . .

Every Sunday, the kids ask if we're going to church.

We don't go.

It's always been difficult to go to church. Well, not always. Mostly since we moved to Colorado Springs, that's when the "difficult" started. At that time, it was just me and Kelsey and Kris. A young, firey white girl with two little bi-racial children (who were adorable!). For years, I discounted the polite looks, the quiet exclusion from conversations, the sense that somehow my little family just didn't fit in.

I found myself switching churches. I'd never thought I'd be one of those. After all, we have trouble relating in our families, why would a family of believers be any different? But somehow, it was. Somehow, my heart just couldn't take not mattering. I was in Bible studies, in choirs, led children's worship with my trusty guitar, went on ladies retreats, joined small groups, led small groups. . .and still failed to make strong connections with anyone.

I was a single mother, going to the denomination's Bible College, working full time and taking classes full time, and still "ministering" in the church . . . and I never felt so alone.

It certainly didn't help when I bought a huge house out in the country and filled it up with handicapped children. My enthusiasim and passion and belief carried us far - especially in making all the parts of the house and care for the children work - but even then, I couldn't truly connect to the Body. When I approached the Pastor about someone from the fellowship helping with my special needs children in a Sunday school class (both for the children and for me, so I could attend services and not be sitting on the pavement outside holding an unruly child on my lap listening to the service over a speaker); his response was that if I felt there was a need, probably God was calling me to that.

Naively, I thought well, okay, and started a Special Needs Children's Sunday School class. So, not only did I get to care for my kids 24/7 at home, I got to take care of them and other kids on Sundays, too. And, I now had the extra job of finding helpers for the class. Wow.

But, I don't want to go into all this here. I mention it to say that I'm pretty sure that a huge part of why I am not going to church today is that, while I've found a Pastor I respect, and going to his church completely satisfies my heart - I am still very aware that my special child (now only Kameron), is a little different (well, alot) and doesn't fit into any nice age group of Sunday School children. With his mental and physical delays, he's better suited for a first or second-graders class than his chronological fourth grade one.

In short, he takes more effort. And, even in our large church with all it's many many ministries, there doesn't seem to be anyone who wants to take on this little child, even for a few hours on Sunday. And it breaks my heart - again.

He benefits so much from God's Word and from the music - he memorizes scripture like crazy, and he's the first one to ask if he can pray for you if you have a problem.

But, he is different. He is in a wheelchair and talks funny and is in diapers. He can have inappropriate behaviors (like throwing the playdough around and laughing like a lunatic). He isn't an easy child, I know this.

But doesn't he matter to God? Of course he does.

Shouldn't he matter to a body of believers? Of course he should.

He is the least of these; one of those Jesus spent time with while here. Kameron matters greatly.

I have to say that I hate writing this. I feel like I'm being horribly disloyal and expecting too much and that the problem must be mine, not anyone else's. Like if I really want to go to church with my handicapped son, I should go - full speed ahead and damn the consequences.

But the zeal and fervor that kept me plowing ahead like that for so many, many years is pretty much gone, now. I am tired. I am tired of fighting to be included - heck, not even included, just to get in the door (there's no handicapped access to the children's ministry). I'm tired of cheerfully smiling at the pretty young couples with their beautiful children who all quietly step back a few paces and try not to look like they're checking us out. I get it all the time out in public, twenty years of it.

It hurts too much to see it in church, too.

And so, another Sunday is spent at home. And I hurt. I hurt for Kameron, I hurt for Kobi and for me.

At some level, I hurt for those missing out on getting to know Kameron, too. He is a very special little boy. He deserves that love and acceptance. But, I'm just too tired to fight for it right now.

2009-10-17T11:14:00.000-07:00

One of the comments I get a lot when people find out that I'm a single mom to high needs kids is, "I don't know how you do it". It's right up there with people saying how special I am and what a big heart, etc. etc.

Not to denigrate those of you who have actually said these things (I do appreciate compliments!), but believe me, I'm human. I'm NO saint.

I have days, like this very day, where I want to pull my hair out. When Kameron - for the fifty millionth time - bothers the dog (enough that the dog is about to bite the hell out of him), and is cackling with laughter over the increasing growls, and I am not near him (perhaps on the toilet, perhaps in the laundry room), and I am saying (over and over, louder and louder), "Kameron, leave Ricky alone. Kameron, leave Ricky alone. KAMERON, leave Ricky ALONE. KAMERONLEAVERICKYALONE".

And am ignored. Until I come storming out of where ever I was, get all up in his face which scares him more than Ricky's growling and snapping, and he says, "okay, mom."

And then we start it all over again in about five or ten minutes. However long it takes me to get started on some other chore in some other area of the house and for Ricky to leave my side and meander back to Kameron.

Kam thinks it's hilarious.

We do "time out", we do "three strikes", we do IAMABOUTTOKILLYOU, nothing ever, ever, ever works. And if I ignore the resulting clamor, I've found it increases. Kobi will start jumping on furniture, Klaryssia will start telling Kameron to leave Ricky alone (she, the Queen of animal pestering), and will tell Kobi to stop jumping on furniture (while she laughs along). . .

The very persistence and stubbornness that makes these "special" kids survive in spite of all odds, is the very persistence and stubbornness that makes them HUGE pains in my hiney (and by hiney, I'm assuming you know what I really mean).

So, next time you think I'm up for sainthood - think again. I lose my cool regularly.

That's the hardest part of being a single mom. No breaks. In fact, any of you who know of single moms (sorry, dads, can't speak for you, never been a dad), you would be doing her an IMMENSE favor if you would take their kids for a few hours every once and awhile. Throw them in the car with you and your kids for a run to DQ or the dollar menu @ Micky D's. Or just drop over and have coffee with her. Bring her a latte; boss her kids around for her. Help her get some of the stress out.

She will probably kiss your feet.

I know I would.

Love, peeps. Thanks for listening!

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.. .

2009-10-12T05:05:00.000-07:00

Kris wasn't into it, Klaryssia's picking a wedgie, and the nurse was hiding behind Kameron . Kobi is critiquing Kameron's costume. Have you looked at yours, son?

In case you haven't noticed, Halloween is just around the corner. I'm not a big Halloweenie person, but for years I've tried to recognize that it matters to my kids. At least to some degree.

Back in Colorado, we lived so far out that it wasn't remotely practical to go around the neighborhood and trick-or-treat - we lived on 12 acres and most of the neighbors did, too. You'd be driving from house to house, and that's no fun. Well, not for the driver,
anyway.

So back there, we'd do the planned event things, like trick-or-treat the mall, or the elementary school, that kind of thing. One year, out in Black Forest near our house, a retreat center had their grounds set up for it. That was fun, because the forest made it spooky, and it was a beautiful place. Unfortunately, in Colorado Springs, it usually snows on Halloween, so it was freaking cold, but hey - they got to dress up and they got some candy, right?

Even Gma got in the spirit...Kobi, however, looks like he wishes he were somewhere else.

Kelsey has a few dental issues, but we love her anyway.

I was showing my claws -- rawwwrr, hisssss!!

We lost a few years of Halloween, but last year we were back
Kameron loves loves loves school buses, and his awesome driver, Miss Judy, came up with this beyond fabulous costume for him:

We only went around our little cul-de-sac, but the kids had a great time -

So, what are we this year? No clue. I was thinking toss a sheet over Kam's chair, call him a ghost and call it good, but that may be a little unimaginative of me. Maybe a Fire Truck driver?? Stay tuned. . .

Had to Share...

2009-10-04T16:05:00.000-07:00

Going down Memory Lane to stir up memories for my memoir (how many forms of Memory can one sentence hold?), and wanted to share these with you guys. Ha! See, I am a natural red head =)

The Gorilla in The Room

2009-10-03T05:51:00.000-07:00

I've been "writing" again. I say "writing" with those annoying little quotes because what I am actually doing every morning (EVERY morning) at the crack of o-dark-thirty is this: BlackBerry Curve (the snazzy red one) alarm tone chimes (I really like the chime sounds - and am I not sooo cool to wake by cell phone rather than an old school, totally annoying alarm clock??), I press snooze a few times (no more than three) then get up, and go pad around the dark kitchen for a few minutes deciding if I want to nuke yesterday's brew or make a small pot o' fresh. Fresh usually wins.

Meanwhile, I try not to step on the small, annoying, yappy dog right at my heels that I swore I would never own - no offense, but I'm a big dog person historically, and this guy does nothing to change my mind about it. In fact, I may switch back to a cat - and I go out to my laundry room office to fire up the PC. Yes, I am not a Mac, I am a PC. No special reason, except lately I've been selling off refrigerators to support my family and the indulgence of an insanely expensive computer didn't seem practical.

Coffee made, dog avoided, PC slowly waking up - fifteen minutes gone.

Log on, go back to kitchen to get that cuppa (w/fat-free half and half - isn't that crazy? How do they make fat-free half and half? Isn't the fat the whole point of half and half??), come back out to laundry room office. Where are my slippers? Spend another five minutes deciding they are lost (those kids!!!!), and open up both the note-taking site I use and the mind-mapping one I've got for this supposed, alleged, much talked about "Memoir" I'm "writing".

I review the previous day's efforts to get my berrings. Throw up a little in my mouth.

"GAH! It's all CRAP! What the HECK am I doing here? What kind of an idiot thinks her life is REMOTELY interesting to ANYONE??? I should go back to bed."

Internal dialogue here. Don't want to wake the precious children.

I shake it off and try to focus.

The problem is that I don't know what to focus on. I think I know what I want to say, then when I start saying it, doubt creeps in on little cat feet. Maybe I'll stick with dogs, after all.

I have a section of life I think I am supposed to talk about. I have stuff mapped out, and think I'm ready to go. Then, when I start writing, it seems so pointless: what am I trying to SAY??? You know, is there a moral to this story? "Kids, don't do drugs", or "Stay in school". I could be a poster child for those causes.

In fact, I have "experimented" with so many things in my life that, to me, it seems a little implausible. I look like - who's that guy, the one who got outed after Oprah loved him? And, I really don't think I need to expose every single little part of my huge, white underbelly. It's kind of a need-to-know thing, isn't it?

Plus, it does seem self indulgent. Why does my story have any more worth than anyone else's? Because, really, it doesn't. We all are in one big story together. We all have our small stories within the context of that one. So who cares?

I titled this post The Gorilla in The Room because you often read about writers having an internal critic or editor. That little annoying voice that nags you and hounds you and tells you you are full of crap (I mean the other word, but kids read my blog, besides I try really hard not to say it . . . much). My little voice is like monster huge. And I picture him as a King-Kong sized gorilla who would be hanging on my back, but even my back isn't big enough, so he sits in an office chair with his huge, gorilla feet crossed and propped up on the desk next to me. He is constantly grooming himself, even as he zings me with his little comments: "You're right you know," he says as he examines whatever nasty thing he just found in his fur, "it doesn't matter. No one will want to read it anyway. Why are you wasting your time? You should go back to that mystery series. Don't you have it all plotted out? 'Course, that's all a bag of poo, too..."

As he pops the invisible nit into his huge, nasty mouth.

ARGH!!

More time spent trying to shut him the heck up. Focus, Kathy, focus.

What am I trying to say???

Mr. Gorilla chimes in, "Exactly. You have nothing to say".

GAH!

Deep cleansing breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

So you see what I'm up against? I will, however, attempt to persevere. I hate stinky Mr. Gorilla almost as much as I hate Small Yappy Dog - no offense.

Somewhere in this room there's a pony . . . but that's another story, and I need to get back to my real "writing".

Hang on, I haven't checked my Facebook or Twitter yet this morning. . .

No animals were harmed in the writing of this post. Yet.

2009-09-28T05:42:00.000-07:00

Okay, so this "bad economy" thing is beginning to irk me.

You hear about it everywhere - it's causing people on my favorite TV shows to lose their TV jobs, commit TV crimes, and act in very uncharacteristic (for their TV character) ways.

I've shared that I've needed to downsize. You know, selling a few things: my cherry red LG steam washer/dryer combo; my stainless steel french door Jennair refrigerator; my king-sized all solid wood four poster canopy bed . . .

But, this is just NOT okay.

I had to leave Therapist Lisa.

See, I am between health insurance plans, and the

one that "let me go" didn't cover her. So her (sorry TL) fairly hefty fee's been coming out of my ever-shrinking pocket. BTW, she is worth every single penny.

First, I tried cutting back. We went from weekly to every other week. It helped, but really I still couldn't afford her. Mostly I just wrote the checks and prayed (literally) that everything would still get paid.

Here's the crazy part: that didn't work so well. But (important "but), it did buy me some time, and I think that was a good thing. I've got a notebook full of her really good, insightful, tailor-made-for-me instructions, and if I'm smart enough to apply them, I think I'll be okay.

Don't get me wrong. I had a choice. I could have tried desperately to find other ways to make more money. At this point in my life, I am thankfully, still pretty employable. But (another important "but"), that completely flies in the face of all the advice she's given me. One of the reasons I slid so far down into the emotional/mental health quicksand was because of all the frantic activity and chaos I'd allowed in my life. Extra jobs on extra jobs. No way to find coverage for the kids (shocker - not too many folk are qualified and willing to watch my super-special little brood). No life for me. The payoff in income was never enough to offset the damage to my soul.

I'm pretty sure we have enough to keep the lights on and food on the table. The other things will either continue to wait or not. My experience is that some will, some won't. But God has always been faithful to us. We will be okay.

My sweet little mom and my dad lived through the real Depression. I've heard stories . . .

None of them included the great sacrifice of quitting counseling. Or, maybe having to eat out less and perhaps drop the Netflix subscription.

I am beyond grateful for my motley little family. We have a good thing going on: each other. I am SO proud of all my children, and I really know that our love for each other and God's love for us will safely see us through. However that pans out.

Tons of love to all of you. You don't know how much I appreciate you for listening to my musing (some would say rambling).

Talk to you soon.

The Stunner next to the Airstream
is my mommy, btw. From back in Her Day

Can't Suspend This Disbelief

2009-09-26T07:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I've confessed here before to several things. I used to LOVE America's Next Top Model . I read People magazine. I watch Hell's Kitchen and the Amazing Race (actively seeking a partner to audition with...anyone??), and I do enjoy Project Runway. So, I do have a bit of a mental junk food habit.

But I think I've reached a limit.

Project Runway has a little spin-off this year: Models of the Runway. It's a 30 minute fun fest showing the girls arguing, being catty, swearing devotion to each other (bffs, right?), and "competing" to be the last girl standing. It's about as compelling as it sounds.

I enjoy seeing the creative process of Project Runway, love seeing the results, actually listen to the judge's critiques, and pull for my fave designers. But, the Models interest me not at all. It's like eavesdropping on a (forgive me, Kelsey) cheerleader sleep-over.

Last night was the kicker. One of the girls was doing her little sound-bite before the elimination. She said something about realizing that she could go home at any moment and said it was, and I quote: "terrifying".

Um, right.

Terrifying?

Terrifying is not the possibility of elimination on a reality show where you've already gotten tons of exposure to the "biggies" in your profession. "Terrifying" is not leaving the lovely comped condo you and your girls have been staying in.

Terrifying is sitting in the hospital while your child is taken into major surgery. Terrifying is trying to find Alzheimer care for your aging parent; the one you promised you'd never "send away." Terrifying is letting go of your husband or wife as they leave you for yet another tour in Afghanistan or Iraq. Terrifying is losing your home because you lost your job and the interest rate just jacked up again and you have no idea how you are going to take care of your family. Terrifying is lying in bed waiting for your teenager to come home, wondering if he's out drinking and driving again and will this be the time he kills someone?

There are many, many things in life that can terrify us. But being paid for being cute, being on a TV show, and getting eliminated are most DEFINITELY not some of them.

Get real. Entertainment is supposed to encourage us into a "willful suspension of disbelief." Not make us want to freakin' hurl.

But Today

2009-09-24T04:45:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I am Nazi Mom.
A shrew-like meanie who scares small children
and belongs in a fairy tale, tempting children into her oven using treats.

But Today, I will hug more and yell less.
I will listen to my children more, and avoid them less.
I will be their biggest fan.

Sometimes, I eat too much, sit too much, drink too much wine
and stay up too late watching TV.

But Today, I will be kind to myself. I will not snack.
I will move more, drink less, and put myself to bed
by 11:00.

Sometimes, my brain shifts into overdrive. It gets stuck
in un-winnable one-sided arguments and worthless what-ifs, with
thoughts swirling around like water in a toilet bowl that never finishes flushing.

But Today, I refuse to contribute to my own misery. I will remember
that I am the Captain of my own mind. I will not take anything personally or
make assumptions about anything. I will keep a quiet heart.

Sometimes, I feel overly responsible for other people's feelings. I try to anticipate
how my actions and choices will affect them, and I act
based on that, rather than simply live my life.

But Today, I will allow God to take care of the world.
If He needs me, He knows where I am. I will live in His freedom.
I will live my story. Mine.

Sometimes I go nuts thinking about all the things I want to do
and be and try. I get overwhelmed and end up frozen,
not doing anything at all.

But Today, I will be intentional about my life. I will think
about what my priorities are,
what I really love, what feeds my soul,
and purpose to take baby steps in at least two areas - today.

Sometimes, I feel oppressed and tormented. I feel weary and shell-shocked
and can't believe I have to take another step.

But Today, I will remember that we have an enemy who hates us
beyond all reason and wants to destroy our lives. Today, I will refuse
to give him influence over my heart.

Sometimes, I question God's motives. I wonder,
"If God is so good, why does this happen?" or, "If God REALLY loved me,
He'd (fill in the blank)."

But Today, I will trust Him. I will trust His goodness. I will trust His love for me,
His good intentions toward me, His plans. I will not behave like an infant in my faith, whining about what I can't have or be or do. I will be an adult, today.

Just for Today . . . I will believe.

As always, I love you guys, and thank you for reading.

It's Not About Me

2009-09-21T13:00:00.000-07:00

My nineteen-year-old daughter, Kelsey made me cry the other day.

It wasn't out of frustration or anger (though that's happened a couple of times), it wasn't over some sad story she'd come across, or empathetic tears brought on by some major life issue she was dealing with. These were surprise tears, and she was crying, too.

Kelsey and I don't tend to be big criers. Tears are usually a last result, and often the by-product of someone else's pain (Kameron comes immediately to mind), or frustration (you know, how you get so darned p.o.'d that you start to cry?). I do cry more at movies, although she can't claim that she doesn't do that anymore, because now she does from time-to-time.

Since she started going to Northwest University last year she's been crying a lot more. They have all those God things going on all the time like Chapel services and stuff. The Chapel services often have guest speakers. Local pastors like Mark Driscoll and Judah Smith come, former NU students like Natalie Grant (singer), and people who've traveled the world doing mission-type things (getting their hands "dirty" all the way up to their hearts for Christ's sake), as well as current students from time to time.

These services touch her deeply. Beneath her witty, tough-girl exterior beats the heart of a servant. Kelsey's always loved our "special" kids. In fact, she's told me for years that she wants to adopt a Down's Syndrome baby. Future husband, beware.

So, back to how she made me cry.

Apparently they had a guy speak at Chapel on loving others, Jesus-style. You know, in a First Corinthians Thirteen unconditional love everyone truly and from your heart kind of way.

He talked about how easy it is to love those that love us: "You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven . . . For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? " (Matthew 5: 43-47) and about how the Christian Church has the unfortunate reputation of picking and choosing who to love, like His Church is some sort of private club.

But Jesus was all about finding the people who had no future - "the things that are not" - the prostitutes, the lepers, the ugly folk and the despised. Those are the ones He loved specially. He came to seek and save the lost, not those who think they're found. The Chapel Speaker Guy said it was about loving "all in" because that's the way Jesus is.

This is the place where, in the front seat of our car at Burgermaster, telling me this story over the sound of arguing kids in the back, Kelsey started to lose it, which of course, made me start to lose it. She said, "And I thought, 'That's my mom. That's what so special about her. That's how she loves the kids, that's why my friends and Kris's friends all love her. Because she loves everybody that way'".

You know, that was so not where I thought she was going with that story.

There was more to the conversation, of course. I know I don't love everyone the way Jesus does, and I told her that. It hurts me that I can't be pure love, that I let all kinds of stuff interfere. I'm not the friend I want to be. I'm not the daughter I want to be. I'm not the responsible adult I want to be. I can make lists of all the things I'm not.

But you know, I think that's why God loves me. That's why He loves you. All those broken, imperfect places we have are what He wants us to give to Him. He doesn't want us to try to get all cleaned up before we approach Him:

While Jesus was having dinner at Matthew's house, many tax collectors and "sinners" came and ate with him and his disciples. When the Pharisees saw this, they asked his disciples, "Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and 'sinners'?"

On hearing this, Jesus said, "It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. . . for I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners."
Matthew 9: 10 - 13

It's not about being fit for the "Club". It's about knowing how messed up we are and needing Him to take our torn up, bloody, world-weary hearts and gently hold them in His immensely capable hands, forgiving our mistakes and helping us let go of all the hurt we've received.

Maybe that's what Kelsey sees in me. Not super-mom or super-Christian (definitely not), but super-sinner saved by great grace. Luke 7:47 says that one who has been forgiven much loves much (my loose translation). And I have been forgiven much.

He really is the answer. Him, not Christians. Him, not the Church. Him, not even me.

I love you guys - thanks for reading.

How Am I Like Her? Let Me Count The Ways. . .

2009-09-16T13:56:00.000-07:00

Another confession from Crazytown

I am a reformed mother-hater.

When I was sixteen (how many good things start with that phrase?) I was in full-fledged rebellion. Actually, rebellion sounds too tame for what I was in. I was in my own terrorist cell. Yep, a suburban domestic terrorist. My only target was my mom. Mainly because she was there.

Dad saw me every other weekend, mostly. My older brother had begun his illustrious career in really dumb illegal activities (he's the guy who shows his ID to a bank teller before robbing her), and was probably incarcerated, and I'm pretty certain I'd alienated most of my friends by this time. It's hard to remember because I lost a lot of brain cells back then, and any surviving cells are starting to petrify.

Ah, but I was in the process of making some really super new friends. Like the twenty-five year old guy from Texas who lived in his car. And smelled like he lived in his car. And there were the totally awesome folks who worked with me at the Renaissance Faire in Novato. Some of them were near my age, some were creepy old guys, and everyone was loaded on something. My mom still doesn't know the nasty junk that happened on those weekends. Heck, I don't know most of it. I believe I mentioned my lack of brain matter. . .

During this "phase", I was one hundred percent convinced that my mom was the stupidest, meanest, most out-of-touch woman on the face of the planet. I cussed her out, I never told the truth when a lie would do, I took off for several extended weekends without calling or letting her know where I was, or if I was even alive, and I skipped most of my sophomore and junior years at high school, finally "escaping" early under an early form of the GED. There's more, but I'm sure you get the drift.

I listened to nothing mom had to say. Not one thing.

Meanwhile, she was freshly divorced from an eighteen year marriage, working two jobs, dealing with my aforementioned brother. . .

Yeah, I was a real peach.

As I've shared in previous posts, I carried this major attitude toward her for years. In fact, I carried it until I was twenty-eight, had an epiphany and God started helping me face myself. Mom became a human, and I started understanding her and her pain - I was able to finally stop acting out of mine.

In any event. One of the perks of our redeemed relationship is all the fun ways I'm now acting like her.

For instance, I find myself admiring white objects: white cars, white drapes, white towels, white trim on walls . . . pretty much anything that is crisp and clean-looking. The first time I noticed this about myself, frankly, I was a bit appalled. I mean, white things are boring. Am I right?

But truly, when you see a fresh load of whites just out of the dryer, or a freshly washed white car, they are SO attractive. Maybe it's the cleanness of them. Maybe when you spend years cleaning up after yourself and other people, anything that looks that good makes your heart go pitty-pat.

Another way I'm becoming my mom is investigating things before I buy them. Back in the day, mom and dad subscribed to Consumer Reports. I thought they were total losers with no sense of adventure or style.

Having wasted untold thousands on purchases better left un-purchased, I am now a firm advocate of www.consumerreports.org, Amazon's ratings, and any other site I can find that provides feedback from people who've bought and used the item I'm considering. Ditto on price comparisons. Often, I'll research something, then go to Craigslist.org or Ebay or Overstock.com to get the best price on it.

But today was a special day in my transformation. I've resisted - for twenty two years as a parent - mending things for my kids. Lame, but true. Well, I did sew on Kris's badges during his short stint in the Cub Scouts.

As for anything else, not so much. Not even replacing buttons. After all, I never can find the needles and thread; forget about finding the missing button or that little spare pack they usually give you.

But the times, they are a-changin'. My daughter Klaryssia lost the button on some brand-new shorts a few weeks back, and I just refused to ditch them. Wearing them without the button wasn't an option, either, because it created a really nice poof and gap right under her belly button. Klaryssia has a hard enough time keeping her shirts over her belly and her pants up. Obviously, I needed to jump in and find a button to sew on. I'll spare you the details of the button search, remembering to buy yet another spool of thread and pack of needles ('cause of course I had no idea where the last set went), and then struggling to thread the darned thing AND sew it on in a helpful way (so that she could actually button the shorts).

I'm happy to report, mission accomplished.

This success led me to set aside one of the boy's button up shirts the other day when I saw it was missing one. Well, to be honest, I probably would have let it slide, but the button missing was the second one down from the chin. You can't just let that one go. It leaves a weird gap.

At this point, it occurred to me that it would be a good idea to have some sort of place to put these clothes that await mending. Further, to have a designated spot for the mending tools AND a place just for all those buttons I expect to collect.

But where?

With this thought in the back of my head today, I set out on some errands. Somewhere along the way, I remembered my mom's old button tin. She had two different tins, actually. One was for all the buttons, one was for her mending supplies: pins, thread, needles, etc.

This seemed like the perfect solution, but alas, I had no tins! Ah Ha! I bet our local Goodwill would have some, if anyone would!

Sure enough, the Goodwill store had not one, not two, but THREE shelves full of old cookie tins and cans from liquor gift packs, and heart-shaped chocolate tins. Jackpot!

I found two that I like, a tall cylinder that housed cookies - this will be my button tin; and a flatish rectangular one that says it's from Harrods and has all these English lords and ladies on it. This will be my sewing supply kit.

Now I'm not going to go all crazy and suggest that I will be launching into a whole new era of hemmed and mended garments, but I am definitely going to be able to find a button, needle and thread next time I need them.

And that's pretty sweet. Good job, mom. Good job. Once again, I realize that you were on top of things. And once again, I'm sorry it's taken me all this time to figure it out.

What I Did on My Summer "Vacation"

2009-09-12T12:00:00.000-07:00

Well people, the long summer has ended and the children are scampering back to school. Maybe not scampering, but they are getting on the bus and going. One way or the other.

And now:

LET THE WILD RUMPUS START!!!!!!!

But, really. . . its time to buckle down and get all those waiting projects going, and um, start that ahh . . .

NOPE: What's that time? What is the time? Tick-tick-tock, it's party o'clock!...

What DID we do on our summer vacation? 'Cause, really, that's the question here. People with children don't have summer vacation, per se. They have children. They have activity plans. They have camps and trips to movies, and maybe summer school - if they're lucky. They have lots of mental exercise trying to keep their kiddos occupado, out of trouble, and out of their hair.

We also spend a lot of time on the train to Crazytown.

If you have teens, you probably have even more stress. What is little Susie doing at the mall? Is she really at the mall? Is she texting while driving that car you bought her? Worse. . . is she "sexting"? And what the heck is that, anyway? Do they still have Raves??

It boggles the mind and feeds the worry machine.

For those of us "lucky" enough to stay at home with our little dears, there are other concerns: Will I survive the next three months? Will the children? Do I care if the children survive? It would certainly cut down on the back-to-school expenses. . .

But really, for our little krew, this was a pretty decent summer. We had Miss Kelsey home from college for most of it, and you all know I loved that. It will probably be her last one home. She's planning on getting an apartment with one of her roomies next summer. Thankfully, she will be pretty close by, but still. . .ah, but that's next year. Why borrow stress that's almost a whole twelve months away? I have plenty of worry for today.

Besides, I think I might (key word: might)be adjusting to this having adult children thing. As most of you know, my baby boy got married (see multiple posts on this one), and, although I cried copious amounts, I did not perish. And, I am actually very happy for them both. Really. REALLY.

Kelsey went on a road trip from Washington to California with some of her roommates, and I didn't freak out when she neglected to call me - well, I think she checked in twice - I survived it. 'Course, she got a speeding ticket, and she wouldn't have if she'd listened to my voice echoing in her brain to slow down and drive safely. But, they all made it home intact. And a good time was had by all.

I made a decision (again) to downsize and clean up and get organized. Am I alone in this? We Americans are insane consumers. We pay for places to keep our junk. We treasure it, as if we'll miss out on some essential part of life if we toss those pans we bought at Wal-Mart fifteen years ago. George Carlin did a bit on this phenomenon (disclaimer: it's a little raw, after all, it is George Carlin).

In light of this decision, I asked two of Kris's BFFs and groomsmen to come out and assist. Wes and Dustin had some free time and came out for a few weeks. It was terrific fun and they helped me get some big ticket stuff done - moving furniture out, rearranging rooms and appliances, some minor repairs, AND they mowed the lawn for me - WOOT!!

In exchange, I gave them some tours of Seattle at her finest, a few beers, introduced them to some of our AWESOME food, and they got to run down to Oregon and visit with the Newlyweds for a few days.

Oh, by the way, they are terrific cooks and made many meals for the kids and me - another big WOOT! I could totally get used to having someone cook for me. Foot rubs would be nice, too.

We had Elesha visit several times, a few friends drop by, Kobi had two weeks at Drama Camp (go figure), Kameron got to ride a really cool adapted bike at therapy, we all managed to tolerate Klaryssia's non-stop talk about being a senior this year at high school . . . did too much DQ, baked in the unusually hot Seattle summer, BBQ'd a couple of times, and generally had some good times.

And then, the capstone of summer: the first day of school!

The kids survived, despite their valiant efforts to make me hurt them with their tactics of arguing, fighting, whining, grumping, and general loudness.

And so did I.

Now: LET THE WILD RUMPUS START!!

Oh, one more thing I did on my Summer Vacation: I re-discovered Craigslist. The world's biggest garage sale. Now, I can sell my stuff. And buy more stuff.

Uh oh.

Letting Go - Parte Due

2009-08-02T15:05:00.000-07:00

I'm spending the day getting my fridge ready for the person who bought it from me on Craig's List. It's not just any fridge, mind you. It's a french door, stainless steel, 20 cubic foot, Jenn-Air refrigerator extraordinaire.

See what I mean?

We're talking electronic control panel with easy-to-read LEDs of the freezer and fridge temps, an open door alarm, low temp alarm, vacation setting (whatever that is) , inside door purified water, ice maker, easily adjustable shelves, and best of all, enough room for all of the food we eat, and it keeps it all at the temperature it should.

I've had it three years. It's the only big thing I have left from the last house I owned - the one I lost two years ago to foreclosure.

I had a GORGEOUS LG steam washer/dryer pair in Cherry Red at that house, too. Ladies, tell me these aren't sexy. . .

I swear, when I finally got those - after a few years of waiting and wanting - I plopped down in a chair in the laundry area just to watch the washer go. It has these beautiful purple and yellow and green lights around the knobs, and has a special LED readout, and is sooooo quiet. . .

These were the first things to go when I was trying to first save the house, then scrape enough money together to move to a rental. A couple drove down from Canada to pick them up. Like the fridge, my loss is someones gain. And I'm glad about that.

Maybe it seems like these are silly things to grieve over, and yes, I semi-realize that. But, you have to realize that I've been raising children for twenty-two years now (dang, that's like FOREVER), and in that time, I've done A LOT of laundry, and made do with some really nasty fridges. These appliances represented an easier load for me. And a funner one, too! In many ways, they made me feel more normal, more like a "real" person. More mainstream. And hey, loss is loss, right?

Actually, I thought I was over it, but finding the pictures to put in this post kind of stirred up those old feelings. Like running across old wedding pictures years after a divorce, or a love letter you neglected to burn after a bad break up.

Yes, people, I loved and adored my appliances. Don't make me tell you about selling my old saddle. The one I moved three times even though I haven't had a horse in about seven years.

BUT (and this is an important but), I'm finally coming around to being very grateful that I have these nice things to sell when I need to. The washer and dryer brought in enough extra money to make sure we could move to a new home when we were losing the one we had. The saddle and some camera lenses helped, too.

This fridge isn't bringing much money, but it's providing some respite from the squeeze left over from my steadily reducing income over these last eight months, and we have another one that was already here to use. Thank you, Landlady Tosha!

We are also moving again - downsizing, simplifying, cutting back on expenses even more. I've decided that my three kids at home need more of me than they currently get. And I don't mean time, necessarily, because I need time, too. By more of me, I mean more of my presence mentally, more thoughtful mommying. They deserve that. We've all been distracted by so much these last five or six years: Kameron's illness and surgeries, moving three (now four!) times, working different part time and full time jobs,starting college for Kelsey and Elesha, Kris and Kami's wedding, all the big kids moving out. . . while trying to maintain a cohesive, loving, family unit.

Wears me out just thinking about it, and we all lived through it!

So, the big plan is to move over the next two months, spending some real time going through all the stuff we've been carting around since we left Colorado, and downsizing. The less stuff I need to take care of, the better. Hopefully, some of it can go on Craig's List. I might even bite the bullet and have a garage sale. I hate garage sales.

That way, maybe I'll have the mental and emotional space to care for and about the things that really matter. Like my God, my family, myself, my church, and my friends.

Stay tuned.

I love.

Multiple Apologies!

2009-08-01T11:29:00.001-07:00

Hey everyone! I just want to pop on and apologize for being so slow to blog lately. Of course, there was the Wedding break, but usually I post every other day, and obviously, that hasn't happened lately!

I am writing TODAY - thanks for your patience. More will be revealed in my post...maybe.

What a Beautiful Day

2009-07-21T13:00:00.000-07:00

I can't express how terrific Kris and Kami's wedding was. God just covered all the proceedings with grace.

First of all, the weather. Colorado Springs is known for its crazy weather. In the Summer, a typical day is hot (mid to high 80s), with break around noon - 3pm for a massive thunderstorm (spectacular killer lightning), followed by more hot.

All the days preceding the day of the rehearsal were like this. In fact, the great rains helped green up everything. Truly, Colorado Springs is fabulous when it is green. The concern for the wedding was that several important things were scheduled for outdoors. The rehearsal and rehearsal dinner, first of all, and then the actual wedding. It would be kind of a serious drag if it rained on either of those events.

But, even though the day before the rehearsal followed the typical pattern, rehearsal day itself went without an angry cloud showing over Pikes Peak.

The Gazebo

The Boyz

The Gurlz, Pastor Mike, the Groom

The Ringbearer - very official

and well, you know:

The day got pretty warm - maybe low 80s - but it wasn't too hot, and the rehearsal dinner went so well. I was concerned, because my new daughter-in-law has a HUGE extended family. There were like thirty million of them here for the wedding. Our family is more modest in size. We had nine. Total, including the groom. Five of those were me and my other children. Three grandparents. No cousins, aunts, uncles, great-grandparents. . .

It was kind of nice meeting all these other people. Strange, but nice. We definitely had a different look going on, most of Kami's fam is from the Iowa and Nebraska region. And, let's say it, they are a little on the pale side. But they welcomed our motley krew with much grace.

So the weather was terrific, and we had more food than even all the families and groomsmen could eat. That was good, too, since the groomsmen were staying with us at Miss Patty's unofficial B&B. Lots of leftovers to go around.

The Day dawned beautifully. . .

Kami scheduled it for 11am, before it got hot, and there was a gentle breeze blowing.

The gazebo on Aspen Lake in Fox Run Park had space for all the immediate family members, guests sat on big stone steps on the east side of the structure, and Pastor Mike was plugged into an amp so everyone could hear.

The boyz were lookin' sharp:

Although, the bride was definitely looking better!

My baby wasn't lookin' too bad, either!

And the gurlz cleaned up pretty well!

Kelly (Kami's mom) and I started crying almost immediately, and actually held hands through a lot of it. The bride was beautiful, the groom (who hadn't seen the dress or his bride before the ceremony), was absolutely beaming the entire day.

Pastor Mike kept the service short, but with wonderful words of encouragement and exhortation from Philippians 2:3-8, emphasizing verses 3 and 4:

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.

He reminded Kris and Kami that they had to keep God first, and each other next - before any other relationships. Guess that includes moms. Sigh.

Then, the parents (Jim and Kelly, Kami's mom and dad, and me) went up for a parental blessing and prayer.

Kris and Kami exchanged vows and rings. Everyone was crying - except Kris and Pastor Mike, I think.

I couldn't have imagined a better day. For any of us.

For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh.

- Genesis 2:24

You know, as hard as it's been for me to let him go, I don't think I've ever been prouder. He has grown up to be a very special man, with a tender yet strong heart, and, considering how often I prayed for him and worried about how to raise a son on my own, I have to look at what God has done and thank Him. Profusely.

We made it this far, now it's up to Kris and Kami to carry on their branch of our fledgling family tree, by God's grace and for His glory.

To Boldy Go Where No Man Has Gone Before

2009-07-09T20:40:00.000-07:00

If you follow my blog at all, you probably know that I have a 22 year-old son - impossible to believe that someone so young-spirited as I would have such an old son, yet it's true. I might have mentioned that he is getting married. As of this posting, the big event is in EIGHT days in Black Forest, Colorado. We lived there for twelve years while he was growing up, and that's where he met the lovely Princess, Kami:

You can see the attraction, no?

You know, they say men marry women who are a lot like their moms. Wouldn't you agree that Kami and I could be twins?

Of course, you would.

I looked even more like her when I was in my late teens - early twenties. Well, except for the perfect hair. I think I was sporting the "natural" look then. . .that's code for never cut it, hop out of the shower, fluff up your hair and let it air dry. Which sounds a lot like what I do now. Hummmmm.

Kami spent much of her life playing softball. In fact, she had a softball scholarship to the same JuCo my son was attending on a basketball scholarship. See, more common ground. Well, but I never completed any sports, unless you count smoking behind the backstop on the baseball field as a sport. Or seeing how many classes you could skip and still get a decent GPA. I bet I'd have gone to State on that.

She was raised by two awesome parents who are still together and has two younger sisters who are adorable and nice, and has a huge extended family. Let's see. I am adopted and my adoptive parents divorced when I was eleven. I lived with my mom, who never remarried, and my only sibling is an older brother who lives somewhere in the mountains of Northern California and I haven't seen or heard from in something like ten years. Kris's dad and I divorced when he was three, and I haven't remarried. We have eight family members coming to the wedding, nine if you count the groom, and six of those are my children and me.

Okay, so maybe we aren't so similar. But is that a bad thing? She's adorable, and sweet, and kind-hearted, and let's face it: Pretty darned cute.

Kris loves her, and I know he intends to stick with her until "death do them part". That's just how he's wired. Yay for him, and for her.

I can choose to look at the brokenness he's come from and feel inadequate to guide him through the inevitable struggles any marriage goes through (because he's a pioneer in our family in this staying married thing), or I can look at how great his heart is, how real I know he is, and how he really is resting in God's hands - nothing I can do will change that for them.

He is kind of the Lewis or Clark of our motley Krew. I couldn't have picked a better trail blazer if I'd ordered him from Amazon.com.

All my love, blessings, and prayers are with you both.
-- Mom

Little Andrew Update:

2009-07-09T19:00:00.000-07:00

Got this in the mail from his therapist last week - we all wrote back. I think he kinda captured me.

Thanking God for a sympathetic therapist!

We Currently Have an Opening. . .

2009-07-02T10:00:00.000-07:00

I'm afraid my nineteen year-old daughter, Kelsey, has lost it.

We leave in nine days for Colorado to attend my son's WEDDING (I can not believe it), and she's arranging things. In fact, I think she wants to set up the whole trip. She worries about me, you know, is constantly making sure I remember things. Things like buying toilet paper, or locking the doors at night, reminding me not to text when I drive - stuff like that.

I believe she is convinced that I'm getting dangerously close to the old lady side of the hill. And, she's probably right. I do forget a lot of things, but at this stage in my life I kind of feel entitled to. After all, at a certain age, don't we have enough brownie points stored up to coast a bit?

My mom, who is in her eighties, glories in her "crabby old woman" status. I understand that. I think I should be able to embrace my forgetfulness.

At any rate, part of her organizing for the trip is arranging a pet sitter. For her fish.

His name is Schwart. Or, Schwarty, if you prefer. It's apparently pronounced "Shh vart". Unfortunately, his (or her, who really knows with fish?) name rhymes with "fart", to the utter glee of my younger children. We spent a few weeks on this chuckle.

Klaryssia still doesn't get it right. I told her to just call him/her Kelsey's fish.

So, Kelsey loves this little fishy. Her college roomate Lindsey won him/her in a rousing game of Bob for the Fish during the Halloween festivities at school. Apparently Kelsey begged. Lindsey said she had a bad track record with fish (if you know what I mean), and Kelsey promised she would be the official Caregiver to Schwart.

She takes this obligation very very seriously.

So seriously, in fact, that while we are gone, not just anyone will be allowed to take care of him/her. She is interviewing her friends, asking probing questions like: "Have you ever had a fish? If you had a fish, were you, in fact, the primary caregiver? If you were the primary caregiver, has said fish died on your watch?"

One friend, when text-messaged the above queries, responded: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA"

And I quote.

So far, she's asked four friends. One, we see above. One asked if it counted that she goes fishing. Kelsey asked what she uses for bait: feeder fish. No go.

The only likely candidate so far, BFF Al, who cared for a salt-water tank of thirteen fish for FOUR years, has classes beginning soon, so they aren't sure his schedule will be flexible enough to fit Schwarty in.

Darn.

Anyone in the Southish Seattle area willing and qualified? I'm pretty sure Kelsey won't be traveling to the wedding if we can't get this resolved, and she's in it.

You know how it is, a girl and her fish.

Steppin Out at Seward Park - Parte Due

2009-06-29T10:50:00.000-07:00

Manager Kimi was sick last week so we haven't walked since last Saturday, I think. It was the day before Father's day...so a little more than a week. Today, we were back!

I won't lie, it was hard getting out of bed and pulling on the warm ups. Had trouble finding my socks - it is difficult to see without my glasses, but I like to ease into morning - finally got the assorted clothing assembled and on, then realized I was almost out of gas. No problem, isn't that what the lawnmower gas is for? Am I right??

I got to Manager Kimi's house maybe ten minutes behind schedule, which seemed to be a reasonable amount of lateness, and off we went.

It was an amazingly beautiful morning at Seward Park. The sky was a clear, serene blue; Mount Rainier was out (she's a bit shy and is often hiding behind a veil of clouds); Lake Washington was softly nudging the shoreline; and the early morning walking temperature was a perfect 60-ish degrees, with an ever-so-gentle breeze.

Heaven.

We saw a few of our regulars: there's a group of women we see fairly often, sometimes with four ladies, sometimes with three, but always with this one older, skinny white lady who does most of the talking, and one black mid-size lady who jogs along with the other women who are walking. It's a very slow jog.

Two of our older gentlemen - we'll call them Walter and Roger - were sitting on one of the countless benches scattered along the shoreline chatting. There are several groups of older people who walk at the Park, all different ethnicities, all different shapes and sizes. It's fun to imagine who they are and what their history might be. . .most of them were probably children during World War II.

We missed Rasta Runner, but kind of expected that, because he's an early runner and we were fifteen minutes later than usual.

We watched people and their dogs. There are adventurous dogs (the ones that will swim halfway across the lake to retrieve a stick), and the not-so-adventurous dogs (the ones that sit on the bank and watch the other dog retrieve the stick). There are itty-bitty dogs that can barely keep up with their owner walking, and BIG dogs that drag their owner as she runs to keep up.

Often, there are parents with their kids on the trail. Today, we saw a dad with his two sons. One of the boys was probably around eight or nine and on a wave board (per Manager Kimi), the other little guy was maybe three and on his little Spider Man trike. He looked like a future football player, kind of a mini-Warren Sapp. Their dad was trailing a bit behind them, trying to keep up.
Another dad was convincing his pre-teen daughter that yes, those tall closet-looking things by the side of the path were, in fact, the bathrooms. Not sure how that panned out.

One interesting factoid that I keep forgetting to mention is that, while MK is a Crow Whisperer, she is NOT a fan of Canadian Geese. I think it dates back to some incident in her childhood. . . geese can be meanies.

There were many geese at the Park today.

We saw a blue heron, possibly two, or possibly the same one twice. They are crazy-cool looking birds.

We saw and heard an angry squirrel chastising and chasing another squirrel out of his tree. Loudly.

Another really awesome thing we saw today was three eagles. They were initially all together flying over the Lake - looking for fish, I suppose. As we walked, they flew over us and perched in some really tall pines nearby. Then they started to talk. You can't call what eagles do singing, I think. I can't describe the sound, but it is very distinctive and memorable. I imagine that all the birds listen when eagles talk. . .
Even after a one-week layoff, Manager Kimi and I completed our two-lap, five mile journey. That sounds impressive, at least for those of us that are athletically-challenged, but it's even more impressive when you consider how much time we spend looking around us and keeping a commentary going rather than concentrating on "exercising".

I can't wait until Wednesday. Who knows what we'll see then!

How about you? Do you have a favorite outdoor spot where you live? What's it like? How often do you get there?

Making Eye Contact

2009-06-28T07:16:00.000-07:00

I've had to cut my Therapist Lisa visits back to twice a month (due to significant budget constraints). In my last visit with her she had a few challenges for me. Unfortunately, I didn't write them all down. Since my mind is getting full (you realize the older you get the more junk you have in there so it gets much harder to find those little memory files, right?), I don't remember all of them. I'm pretty sure there were three. One was to "continue to feel". This was in response to the yucky grieving over Andrew's leaving.

I still say feeling is highly over-rated.

I can't remember the middle one.

The last one was a challenge to make eye contact with. . . men. There, I've said it. Right here in cyberspace for all to see. Crap.

I don't talk much about the "single" part of the parent thing, do I? Which is kind of crazy since I've been one for nineteen (yes, NINETEEN) years. There are many excuses that could be made here. Busy, busy, busy!! Family to raise!! All the "good" ones are taken!! I don't trust myself!! And so on.

But truthfully, I never wanted to be a single mom. All that bs spouted around about how we are just another type of family is just that: bs. There is nothing fun, glamorous, or romantic about raising children alone. Kids aren't all that keen on it, either (speaking as a person raised by a single parent).

Face it, we are designed to need two parents. We are needy beings and we suck a lot out of one person. Plus, moms are generally the nice ones. It's hard to do both nice and nazi. Confuses the kids and the mom.

Of course, this is a fallen world there are tons of reasons why we end up with only one parent. Some two parent families would do better with only one. And somehow in spite of the statistics, lots of kids from single parent homes grow up pretty well. It still amazes me how awesome my older two are.

BUT (and this is a big but), I personally hate being alone. Not just for all the kid-raising, house maintaining, someone to rub my back reasons, but because I'd like a man to share life with. Someone to listen to who likes listening to me. Someone to hang out with.

This is a place in my heart that I haven't spent much time exploring. I think it's one of those "feeling" areas I'd rather avoid. But if I ever want the situation to change, I probably need to at least take a peek at it, right? Yuck and more yuck.

So the Therapist Lisa challenge is to make eye contact with men.

Something about being available engage in a conversation or something like that. EEEEWWWW. Who the heck thought it would be so tough to just look a man in the eye??

I hate it when I am exposed as a little girly girl. Weak underbelly? Um, YEAH!

I may or may not keep you guys posted on this. Let's see how it goes.

What a wimp.

2009-06-27T14:09:00.000-07:00

I'm struggling today with what to post. I want to write something profound and moving, something that will make a difference in your lives, my faithful readers...

But I'm coming up short. Profound isn't on my menu today. Must be an overload of profundity in my life lately. This is what I came up with instead:

The awesomeness of Seattle Sourdough bread - if you've never had it, it's amazing, especially with sharp cheddar cheese - or a post about my favorite things, like photography, large bodies of water, sunflowers, big dogs, and calligraphy. Or I could write about friendship: how difficult it can be to find and keep good friends.

I considered telling you how my Italian lessons are progressing - bene grazie; or, about Seattle in the sunshine (glorious - green and blue and around seventy degrees).

But I think today I'll take a break. I finished a chunk of my work-at-home job, and have several good books waiting to be read. So, that's what I'm going to do this Saturday afternoon.

Thanks for bearing with me, people. You have no idea how much I appreciate you all.

What to Do? What to Do?

2009-06-25T01:01:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've spent years and years trying to decide what to be when I grow up. Which is a little sad, because at my age, I'm not growing up anymore, I'm due to start shrinking. Well, in height, anyway.

But I've never had a distinct sense of direction in my life - with a few exceptions - and now that Andrew is gone, I'm back at the fork in the road. Do I continue to foster extremely high needs children? Do I simplify my life, and stop fostering? Is there a middle ground?

On the one hand, I am very good at helping kids with intense behaviors. On the other, I have three children at home - two who are still very young - and I'd like to spend some time with them. They have needs, too.

But what do I do for income?

And what are some of my longish-term goals? As my children get older and move out, where am I finding that "abundant life" I long for? How much time do I spend even pondering it?

I came across a meme the other day. 101 things to do in 1001 days. It's not new by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, one of the oldest posts I found on the site went back to 2003. But it is new to me, and I love the concept. Check it out.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking and praying about what to do next. I can't seem to get away from these children in distress, so it's doubtful I'll completely stop working with them. But I also need to regroup after losing Andrew. So do my kids.

I will say that everyone who can help a foster child, should. There are so many children in our communities that remain in dangerous and deplorable circumstances because there is nowhere to take them. There is always a shortage of foster homes.

Please consider stepping out of your comfort zone and taking in just one child. You don't even have to be a full time foster parent. You could provide respite for other foster parents. That means taking someone else's foster children for a few days so that the actual foster parent can get a break.

You will be making a difference. It's like throwing a pebble into a still lake. The ripples of your one act of kindness will spread far beyond your reach, far beyond your imagination.

Think about it.

Much love and respect my friends, I'm sure I'll keep you posted as things develop.

K

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's...

2009-06-21T20:48:00.000-07:00

Kameron my nine year old, is, to me, a superman. Well, maybe a superboy. It's been awhile since I told his story I think, so I'm going to tell it again - hey, it's my blog, so I can indulge right?

Kam was born Kenny in Denver Colorado on January 1st, 2000. Now, before you ooo and ahhh about how cool that birthday is, I want to warn you that he was born THREE months early. Yes, three months. At birth, he weighed a little over one pound. He had a brain hemorrhage that contributed to the calcification of 45% of his brain. That means almost half his brain was turned essentially into bone. He couldn't eat, his optic nerve was seriously damaged from the hemorrhage, his lungs were unformed...in short, Kenny was a mess.

His mom and dad were encouraged from the get-go to disconnect the life support from little Kenny. They declined. Soon, it became evident that mom and dad were less than stellar parents (I believe they had a fist fight in the NICU), and the courts stepped in with a protective order for him.

Within three months, the hospital declared him well enough to be discharged to a foster home. His first foster mom disagreed. Kenny was supposed to be bottle-fed, yet he wouldn't/couldn't suck; he still had significant breathing difficulties, and was on oxygen, but it didn't seem to be helping. She was concerned about his listlessness, his pallor. It seemed to her that the hospital was trying to discharge him so that he might finally die. She wasn't into that happening on her watch. The social worker must have agreed with the hospital, because she didn't want him back in the hospital, and so Foster Mom #1's agency moved Kenny to another home. Thankfully, this Foster Mom was newly licensed because she'd just left her former career as a NICU nurse.

She took one (okay, maybe two) looks at Kenny and whisked him off to Children's Hospital in Denver. There he was put on a feeding tube and a ventilator. Eventually, he had surgery for his retinopathy (eye problem, not the optic nerve damage though), and was diagnosed as having bronchial malaisa. Basically, his bronchial tubes weren't formed enough for him to breathe.

He stayed at Children's for the next year. He grew, and his lungs matured a bit, but not enough to get off the vent. Parental rights were terminated (his mom and dad stopped visiting shortly after the ventilator was attached to Kenny's throat via a tracheotomy). And Kenny finally stabilized.
Here I come. Crazy Foster Mother to I don't remember how many at that point, and really wanting a baby. Now, I guess that most people, when they think of a baby, don't think of a baby with Kenny's special needs. Actually, I didn't either. But from the moment I saw him in Denver, I knew I wanted him.

Anyway, long story short, Kenny came to live with us. It took many weeks, months maybe, to get the house and us ready. We had to hire a private duty nursing company to take care of his still significant medical needs, occupational, physical, and speech therapists to try to get him functioning at any level he could achieve, a special chair was ordered that would hold both Kenny and his ventilator and two batteries for our trips out of the house. And on and on. We had a ton of prep work for this little boiyo. In the end, it took us a little more than three years to get him off the vent and the feeding tube, and right after that, his lungs were declared healthy enough to be off oxygen completely. He was doing terrific. Better than anyone expected, especially his doctors.

August of 2003, Kenny became Kameron, and an official member of my little brood.

Then, when he was about to turn five, all heck (and I mean the other word) broke loose. It was Halloween, and Kam had been sick all day. It looked like the stomach flu, which made sense, because several of the other kids had been sick. But around dinner time, Kam had a grand mal seizure and I called 911.

Weeks in and out of ICU in Colorado Springs, and no one knew what was wrong with him. Most of the professionals agreed that he'd just begun having a seizure disorder. After all, look at his CT - look at all that brain damage. I disagreed. Kameron had never shown any hint of seizure disorder, and even so, the way he was seizing didn't look to me like a typical disorder.

Eventually, some technician saw a shadow on an MRI, and it was decided he had an Arterio Venous Malformation: an AVM. Some of the symptoms were migraine headaches, seizures, possible hemorrhage, and stroke-like features. We almost lost him several times.

More long story short, some serious brain procedures - like thirty or thirty-five - later, and one brain surgery last August, it looks like maybe the AVMs (turned out to be a ton of them) are shut down and not growing anymore. Yay!

Now nine and about as healthy as he's ever been, Kameron is finally getting a chance to grow and develop. He is in a wheelchair, but can use his legs, and if the medical equipment powers-that-be could hurry up a bit, he will soon have a walker to use. The idea of him standing and walking on his own is beyond thrilling.

Also, this little boy who wasn't supposed to live, then wasn't supposed to ever talk or eat or have any signs of intelligence, not only talks (a LOT), he remembers people and their names, he sings a ton of songs, he remembers scripture verses, loves basketball, and on and on. AND he is learning addition (ask him what 3+5 equals and he will tell you 8), and just the other day I posted a pic from my phone on Facebook showing Kameron reading on the toilet. Now, this wouldn't be extraordinary for most kids, but Kam, with almost half his brain severely damaged and about nine years behind the rest of the pack, was actually reading the words - all of them - in the book. Not bad for being "blind".

I guess the moral of his story is that you just can't count anyone out. No one told Kameron he was supposed to die - many times over by this point. No one told Kameron he couldn't read or learn math. No one let him know he shouldn't be able to dribble and shoot a full sized basket ball. He just keeps on going. Who knows where he'll end up? I can't wait to find out.

As always, thank you so much for reading. I know you have your choice of blogs, and am grateful mine is one of them. Much love.

Thinking Upon These Things. . .

2009-06-18T09:48:00.000-07:00

No secret, life's been tough lately.

Andrew leaving. My twenty-two year old son, Kris, settling into Oregon and getting married next month. His sweet fiancee moving from my house back to Colorado to prepare for the wedding...all within a few days.

Who knew how much this stuff would hurt? Let me tell you, it sure does. And all the avoidance methods I've worked so many years to perfect aren't strong enough to hold back the pain. Crap (and by "crap" I really mean the other word).

Denial - pretending I don't care - nope. I do care.
Distraction - TV, books, hot baths, sleep, excessive use of Mafia Wars, and the like - nope. Just not fun enough or important enough.
Drunkenness - let's see...well, since around 1989, that's lost its appeal. Thankfully, I can enjoy a glass of wine or two, but the total obliteration of getting wasted is not an option.

So that kind of leaves another "D": Dealing with it.

This is really no fun, but I don't see a way around it. As a Christian, I know I need to "turn to God". What does this look like? I mean what, exactly, does that entail?

Most of us will say, "Pray, and read the Bible". That is a standard reply. But does it work? When we pray, does He answer? What kind of help is it to pray, really? What practical help in relieving my intense psychic and emotional pain is to be found in the Bible?

Well, for the past many years, I probably wouldn't be able to answer that. Even though I've been with Him for twenty years, the last...umm...ten, maybe, I've been angry and resentful and bitter. God hasn't done what I wanted Him to do. I had big plans for what He'd do through me - the ministry I thought He had for me. When it didn't pan out the way I thought it should, I got pissed.

At first, it was just around the edges. A root of doubt - a whisper - planted in my heart. "Did God really say He loves you? Then why didn't He help you with this? Why didn't He save you from that? That doesn't seem loving at all, does it?"

And that awful root, un-dealt with, grew larger and stronger, like some crazy kudzu wrapping itself around my heart trying to kill the Life in me. Every disappointment, every perceived "failure" on God's part only fed the nasty vine. My prayer life withered and almost completely died. My time in the Word - ditto.

These two activities used to literally be my life-lines. I hungered to spend time with God every morning. It fed me, kept me stronger than Wheaties ever could! Losing this very nearly killed me, I'm realizing. I can't explain what it's like, that connection - but it's real, and good, and necessary.

So now, just as I'm recognizing this massive black hole in me, along come more "challenges" to my weakly fluttering faith. And the temptation is to once again, get angry at God for not making things go the way I sincerely think they should.

But I am not God. I do not know the whole story. Frankly, I don't need to or want to. And that's the truth.

How do I combat the temptations to doubt Him? I don't have that totally figured out. That's what church and Therapist Lisa, and Manager Kimi, and my Gorgeous Son, Kris and my Awesome Daughter, Kelsey are for. They are helping me pull my eyes off the things I can't have. They are helping me fix my eyes on what I do have. Like a friend to walk in the park with. Like a therapist who prays for me, like a sweet son who likes to spend time with me, just talking, and a daughter who will rub my feet and yell at the little kids when I am too worn down to.

I also have some really fine memories of my life this far. The kids that have come through my homes ('cause we've moved a lot), times spent at gymnastics meets and football games, reading to the kids and praying with them before bedtime, camping in the rain at the beach, Awesome Daughter Kesley making Thanksgiving dinner when she was fifteen because My Precious Boy Kameron and I were in ICU - again! I have so many many things to be grateful for.

And I am.

8 Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. 9 What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me—practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you.

Philippians 4:8,9 ESV

How do I Detach from This Outcome?

2009-06-14T23:53:00.000-07:00

I've been a little quiet the past several days. I'm not sure how many of you've been following my Andrew stories, but to recap, he is my sweet four-year-old foster son. Well, "sweet" may be pushing it a tad. But, I think he's sweet.

Andrew came into our home November 1st of last year. At the time, I was contracting with the YMCA Family and Mental Health Services agency to provide a temporary home for kids who were in crisis and needed more structure and supervision than they could get in their home or in a "regular" foster home - a place to calm down and stabilize. Some of the kids some were having trouble maintaining at home or in a foster placement, some were just out of the hospital; and some should have been hospitalized.

A few of the children that came in fell through cracks in the system. They were children under six, because six in the Washington State foster program is a magic age. That's when kids can be classified as needing significant behavioral support and get more funding. Not quite certain why behaviors they've been having for all the previous years aren't enough...but hey, it's a Governmental bureaucracy. It has to have a few kinks in it (cough, cough).

Because of this rule, some of the littler kids needing intense supports don't have a place to go. Their "families of origin" can't handle them, and none of the treatment facilities will take them without the higher level of funding. My house became kind of a loophole in the system. Our program could provide the higher level of care and services, but only for ninety days.

So, here comes Andrew. At four years old, he's my youngest yet in the program. He'd been in seven placements already. The previous placements were all family members and he'd been abused and neglected in each of them.

He came into our house one ANGRY little guy. Huge behaviors, spitting, kicking, throwing things, hitting, crying, CUSSING like a serious longshoreman. His tantrums - and I use that term loosely, because they were really rages - lasted up to three hours. For real.

This went on for weeks. Every single day, at least once a day. Sometimes, two or three times. It was a bumpy ride for us all. We went past the ninety days, and I changed the classification of my home so that he would not have to move again.

Eventually, we wore him down. Consistently saying what was okay and what wasn't, sticking to easy, clear rules: "We chew with our mouth closed, Andrew" "We stay at the table until we're done, Andrew" "We don't use words like that, Andrew" "We flush and wash, Andrew" and putting some structure into his life helped him feel safe and he started to relax.

It got so that tucking him into bed (which used to be an ordeal lasting a few hours), turned into one of the highlights of our day. He would get his jammies on and brush his teeth, go to his room to pick out a book, and get under the covers to wait for me. We had a whole routine worked out.

Ditto in the morning. We had a getting ready for the big boy's bus schedule. Having consistent things - even "little" things - to look forward to helped make his day (and mine) smoother and more predictable. He loved these things.

Four weeks ago, a judge who's never met Andrew, decided he was ready to go back to his mother. He hasn't lived with her for the last three of his four years. He is scared. He doesn't know her. And as of last Friday morning, he's living with her.

I can't go into the details of the case; not because I'm worried about confidentiality, but because I don't want to, and I don't feel it really matters at this point.

What matters is that Andrew got under my "professional" foster mom skin. What matters is I love that little boy. What matters is that, when I tried to pack his little plastic forks and spoons that he got for having good table manners, he said, "No, leave them here for when I come back". What matters is how hard he hugged my neck when he left, and how hard I cried after I closed the door.

What matters is that I keep listening for the sound of his rattly, plastic Big Wheel tearing up the sidewalk in front of our house; that I keep waiting for the sound of his voice, asking me a thousand whys: "Kath-a-leen, why does Ricky have eyes? Kath-a-leen, why does Klaryssia get mad so much? Kath-a-leen, why is your car that color...?"

What matters is how empty my lap feels sitting here at this computer because he used to, just last week, just a few days ago, come running out here to my office, flat, bare feet slapping on the hardwoods, to push his way up into my lap, to sit with me while I wrote. Always asking me, "Why"?

I don't know why, Andrew. I have no answers for this one.

I love you, little man. You will always be a part of me, and I hope and pray that somewhere in your little man heart, you will remember me, too.

I'm a Tricksy Girl

2009-06-11T07:21:00.000-07:00

Here's a quick update on the TV fast. If you recall, I let it slip to Therapist Lisa that I tend to over-watch television. Kind of a turn it on and tune out thing? So, she challenged me to turn it off for SEVEN days. At the same time, in church, I kept hearing about us trying to find comfort from stuff (any stuff - TV, drugs, drink, food, friends, etc.) rather than face our pain and junk and take it to God. So, knowing that I have many many "comfort" things that help me not at all, I agreed to turn it off.

I actually did pretty well with the no TV thing. Only watched one lateish night, started with a DVR'd Law and Order - I do love that darned show - and then watched Marley and Me, which of course had me sobbing.

That was helpful. I need to cry more.

The thing I noticed immediately was my computer time increased. Not so much Facebook or Twitter, which surprised me, but def more time cruising and exploring: reading other people's blogs, looking up random stuff, checking out Italian learning programs and sites. I didn't work on my writing like I wanted to, although I had some more ideas on framing my story. 'Course, ideas don't do diddly if you don't act on them.

But, I also noticed that I have spent more time talking with God and reading His Word. So that's a huge positive. And, I did tackle a big personal project that I've been avoiding. It's not quite finished, but it's about two-thirds of the way done.

I'm really working on recognizing baby steps as positive progress, and not slapping myself around for not "accomplishing" anything because of some nebulous, fictional, grading scale I have that says unless I get it all done - preferably now - I've failed.

“With what shall I come before the Lord,

and bow myself before God on high?
Shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves a year old?
Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousands of rivers of oil? Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?”
He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?

- Micah 6:6-8 esv

Okay, I can work on those. Oops. I'm supposed to be "being" more and "doing" less.

See how my mind works? Now I'm stressing about being and doing. UGH!!! Where's that remote??

Love you guys, thanks always for reading...

Steppin' Out at Seward Park

2009-06-09T07:14:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I've told you all about the walking program with my little Manager Kimi, right? One of the three out-of-the-house-with-another-person things I'm supposed to do? So, here is an update on that activity.

I mentioned that we are walking at Seward Park, it's a really beautiful place on the south end of Seattle. It's situated on a little penninsula jutting out into Lake Washington. For those of you who don't know, Lake Washington is an amazingly beautiful body of water that curves along the east side of the city of Seattle. It's huge - 22 miles long at one point, and 214 feet at it's deepest. When the sun is even remotely out, the lake is filled with boats, Seados, and brave swimmers along the shore.

The University of Washington butts up against part of the western shore, and their boat house is there, in the shadows of Husky Stadium and Hec Ed Pavillion. In the early morning hours, if you are nearby, you can see the crew racers out practicing. They look like big water skeeters. It seems like they barely touch the surface as they speed along.

Lake Washington and Lake Union (another beautiful body of water, the one with all the houseboats) are connected by the Montlake Cut which runs between Husky Stadium and the Montlake neighborhood, then meanders under the University Bridge. There are tons of waterfront businesses dotted along here, kayaking clubs, little restaurants that you can boat up to and tie up for a meal. Lake Union has GasWorks Park, a very popular - read thousands of people - place to view the fireworks at the Space Needle on July 4th.

These are some of the reasons I love my home. Walking with Manager Kimi at Seward Park is reminding me of these reasons. That's just one of the bonuses. She and I are up to two laps around the park, that's five miles - yay us!

We take it fairly easy, and talk a lot (mostly me, I'm afraid), but we've noticed our time getting better. We are also having fun. There are regulars: Rasta Runner for one. He's there every time we are. He's always wearing his hat and brightly-colored shorts that match. He is VERY thin and musclely. I imagine him running across deserts in Africa. . . he always says hello, every time he passes us. Funny, he is always running opposite of us. Seems like the regulars all go in a regular direction, too.

Manager Kimi has a here-to-fore secret calling: she is a Crow Whisperer.

Did you know such a thing exsisted? Me either. But she is one. I've seen her in action. See, she talks to the cawing crows, and they stop cawing. They seem to know that she has wisdom to impart...kinda creepy, if you ask me, but I still like her.

There are a lot of crows at Seward Park.

We've noticed that our fellow walkers/runners seem nicer on the weekdays. Everyone (really, everyone) says hello and smiles as they pass. Even the ones that are really huffing and puffing. It's awfully nice to have that degree of friendliness within the city.

There are sweet groups of older people, men, women, both together, that stop along the path to chat. They always smile and wave, too. Many many dog walkers - some with up to three - and dog runners. One guy had his dog tied around his waist. They both looked like they were ready for a marathon.

One of the oddest things is the "skirt runners". On any given day, we can be sure to see at least one woman (one day, it was three different women) wearing a skirt. I'm not talking sporty, tennis player-type skirt. I'm talking maxi-length, cotton or cotton-blend type skirt you might wear to church or something. Really a bit odd.

But for me, that is part of the charm. The people we see enjoying Seward Park, are who they are. Most of them aren't there for anyone but themselves, and by that I mean they aren't dressing to impress, or making sure their dog looks good. Well, for the most part.

Bottom line, they are there to enjoy this great space in the middle of our city. That makes me enjoy it, too. Yay for Seattle, I say.

For more Pics from Steppin' Out at Seward Park, see my Picasa album.

Nothing Earth-Shattering to Say...

2009-06-06T22:10:00.000-07:00

Hi guys -

Nothing major to report on tonight. I just wanted to move past my last post a little!

Tomorrow in the early morning, I'll be walking with my friend, Manager Kimi at the lovely Seward Park. I will be taking my camera along so I can post tomorrow night and show all of you who aren't familiar with Seattle how gorgeous it is.

Now, of course, the weather has shifted a tad from the hot sunny days we had early this week. The cloud cover is back, and it's a bit dampish. But, hey! That's why we have such greenery, right? I think it's also why we have so many birds - all that dampness encourages worms and so on.

Andrew is at his mom's for the whole weekend. From yesterday through Monday afternoon. He's called both days and I'm not sure how he's doing. He can be a bit dramatic. But those of you who pray, I'd appreciate it if you'd pray along with me in this. We love that little guy, and really want what's best for him.

Meanwhile, Kobi's ninth birthday was Thursday, and I'm taking him and a few friends (his and mine!) to see Up. I've heard terrific things about it, and it'll be nice to have a little diversion during this seven day no TV thing. She didn't say I couldn't do movies.

Kris and Kami are moving him into what will be their new apartment in McMinville, Oregon this weekend. Kami goes back to Colorado with her mom next week to do the final wedding prep. All this change is coming down fast and furious!

Where'd I put that trash bag??

Scripture for the day/week/month/year/rest of my life:

" Not that I am speaking of being in need, for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need.
I can do all things through him who strengthens me."

Philippians 4:11-13 esv

Well, obviously, I haven't learned to be completely content, but I remember where contentment lies. I'm working on that. "I can do all things through him who strengthens me".

Much love my faithful readers and friends.

Note: sorry about the funky formatting. After I changed it for the scripture quote, I couldn't get it off italics. Argh. Oh well!

Feeling like a Lumberjack

2009-06-04T19:14:00.000-07:00

In Matthew chapter 7 verses 1 through 5, Jesus says:

“Judge not, that you be not judged. 2 For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged, and with the measure you use it will be measured to you. 3 Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? 4 Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye? 5 You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye. ESV

I have to say that this passage has been popping into my head a lot lately. I've been working on what originally was to be a memoir, but may be morphing into a series of essays on my perspective of life - kind of reflections on what I think I'm learning and where I've been.

As I'm considering and praying about what I'd like to say, God is showing me some more opportunities for growth (as we Christians like to say). One specific place is in my judgmental heart. Christians tend to bristle and get a little defensive when people say we are hypocrites and judgmental. But see above? Jesus was calling the religious folks of the day hypocrites. And this teaching is preserved in our Bible for those of us who care to hear today. Since I am a follower of Christ - albeit a lame one - that means this message is for me. I really do want to honor Jesus and walk well, so that means I should be listening up here.

I digress. The specific place I'm feeling like a log-toting hypocrite has to do with two of my sons: Kameron and Kristopher.

Kristopher is my first-born. He is now twenty-two, totally gorgeous (I can say that, it's true), and getting married next month. He is an amazing young man, and it blows me away to think I somehow (with a GREAT deal of God's grace poured out on us) raised this guy.

Kameron, as you may know, is one of my unholy terrors. He is one of three little boys I have at home right now. Andrew, the youngest, is a foster son, and due to return to his mom soon. Kameron is nine, and Kobi is nine (today). They are my adopted sons. I've had Kam since he was a year old and on a ventilator. He was born three months early.

Now, at this point in the story, I usually make sure to mention that Kam was born three months early because his biological (what a clinical word) mother was smoking crack on New Year's Day 2000, and Kam came too soon. He was born with a lot of problems, not the least of which was a massive brain hemorrhage and horribly under-developed lungs. The mom was found unfit and the rest is a story for another day.

Okay, here's the log part. When I was pregnant with Kristopher, I was a different person. I in fact, used a variety of street drugs, including crack. All this while working in a stock brokerage firm as licensed assistant to several Vice Presidents. Kind of a double-life. Now, to my credit (if you can call it that), while I was carrying Kris, I backed off drugs, mostly. And I mostly didn't drink. Mostly. Except of course for the little celebrating I did on New Years Day 1987. Crack and Champagne. Kris was born two days later, almost three weeks early, and thankfully, he was okay.

The parallel God's been gently reminding me of though, is that in the eight years I've had Kameron, I've harbored a hugely judgmental, critical, holier-than-though attitude toward his mom.

For this I am sincerely sorry. I don't know any of the circumstances of her life, and really, they don't excuse the choices she made. But, obviously, my choices were pretty wrong and horrible, too. It is only by the grace and mercy of God that my son was spared any catastrophic consequences from my - let's call it like it is - sin. For me to constantly put her down and bring up her failure again and again is wrong.

I also need to ask forgiveness of my son for risking his life when I was carrying him; and God's for my hypocrisy.

Alright folks. This is probably enough honesty for today.

Much love, and thanks as always for reading.

Hearing

2009-06-03T22:33:00.000-07:00

Jesus liked to repeat things. I think it was one of His ways of making sure we peeps down here would possibly, hopefully get the messages He was trying to get out. Kind of like we have to do with teenagers. And toddlers. And old folks. Heck, I need to hear things a million times, too. Guess it's just a people thing in general.

So, when Jesus says something a bunch of times, that is supposed to be our clue to pay attention. One of the things He said many times was, "He who has ears to hear, let him hear." It was kind of a tag line at the end of some parables.

I talk a lot in this blog about the stuff in my life, the processes God seems to be guiding me through to help me make some sense of my heart, my head, and my relationship to Him. We've had a bumpy ride, He and I. He's been faithful, I've been running ahead; He's been patient, I want results and I want them NOW; He's been tender, I turn my back and pout. It pains me to admit this stuff, but it's where I'm at - it's like I'm holding Him off at arm's length while wanting Him to never leave.

The "why" part, I don't know. And by that I mean why I'm holding Him off. Maybe I never will. Maybe I just need to keep inching closer and closer to Him until the reasons for my hurt and anger are all just melted away in the heat of His glory, and my frozen heart is again soft and vulnerable in His Hands.

At any rate, I'm feeling like He's stirring all around me and in me and patiently, graciously, waiting for me to once again be open to Him and to all He has waiting for me - which is all of Him.

To come away from all the distractions and cares of this world, and to hear Him. To have ears to hear.

Much love, and thank you for reading.

Ooops.

2009-06-02T17:44:00.000-07:00

Well, I think I put my foot in it today. Tuesday morning is Therapist Lisa time. Today, I went with no agenda in mind, just open to what ever God and TL had for me. Big Mistake. Huge.

Somewhere in the convo, I let it slip that one of the things I use as a major distraction is TV. Like enough hours every night that I wouldn't tell her how many. Darn it. Me and my big mouth.

Of course the first thing she does is challenge me to keep it off, yes OFF, for the next seven days. Whoa there! Seven days, cold turkey? I don't think she realizes what she's asking. No television at all? Can't we just taper down or something? I don't know if I can fall asleep in a quiet room.

What will I do with the empty hours? More importantly, what will The Mentalist and So You Think You Can Dance, and NCIS do without me??? Besides, I just discovered Burn Notice and In Plain Sight...

Crud.

Well, we'll see what transpires. I do have a to be read pile that's about two feet thick. And, I am supposed to be writing...and Therapist Lisa says that going to therapy and then going home and spending all that time watching TV is completely counter-productive. More of that distracting avoiding behavior. Blah Blah.

Good thing I didn't mention Mafia Wars.

Field Trip Fun . . . Day Two

2009-05-31T21:34:00.001-07:00

Okay, here it is! The promised post on our Field Trip
Fun, Day Dos. This is Kameron's third grade class:

Note that it's much smaller than Kobi's. Also of note, we got Naturalist Rhonda again! Of course, I'm the only one who understood the significance of that fact, since I'm the only one who saw her the day before, but I thought it was cool. No word from Rhonda on how she felt about it.

Ms. Parnell is Kam's teacher. She's the lady in the back wearing pink and looking vigilant. She looks vigilant in most of the pictures I took that day...this is a good thing. Her class is very mobile and active. Vigilance is called for. Believe me.

Rhonda is giving instructions on how to treat the beach. The teachers are wondering if Rhonda knows what she's up against. The kids look like they are paying attention...heck, maybe they are! Note here that Kameron is not in the picture. Kameron was already "acting up" (aka, being a butt-head). He was hanging with me. Not fun, I hope.

Here is Kameron returning to the group.

It took him a minute to warm up.

Finally, he gets on board. . .

and okay, let's look for sea creatures!

After some initial hesitation - she didn't want to get her feet wet - Taylor decides she's into this.

Here she is trying to meet a tube worm. . .

that didn't go so well, on accounta that "don't squish the tube worm rule",

so she and Allison explore the kelp.

Meanwhile, some of the boys are looking high

and low. . .

for signs of life.

Yonny double-checks his guide.

There weren't many creatures to be
found this day. Bummer.

But Kameron didn't care. He got a piggy-back from Kelsey.
As far as Kam's concerned, any Kelsey-time is a good time.

Back down at the shore with the group, Kam wonders why the HECK he CAN'T throw sand,

Ms. Parnell? What's the dealieo with that?

Eventually, I'm sure, the class did find sea life. But by then, Kameron was back on dry land, having exhausted his chances to be "good". Such a relative term, isn't it? Good/Shmud. You say Potato, I say Tomato. Right?

They did appear to be having fun, though.

And for the munchkins in Ms. Parnell's third grade class at Hazel Valley Elementary, any and all field trips are most welcome. These little dudes and dudettes just love being outside with people who care about them. That's the best fun.

Thanks again, Seahurst Park and Naturalist Rhonda.

And to Ms. Parnell, her asst. teachers, and the kids in Kameron's third grade class, thank you for letting me come on your awesome adventure! See you next year, I hope!

Field Trip Fun. . . Day One

2009-05-30T10:28:00.000-07:00

Kobi and Kameron are both in the third grade.

Kobi is in Mrs. Hayes class.

Kameron is in Mrs. Parnell's class.

As most parent of school-aged kids know, as we approach the end of the school year, the number of field trips increases. I suppose this is due to a few factors: a) the weather is nicer b) the kids are more antsy c) the teachers are running out of new things to teach or d) the field trip budget needs to be spent.

Could be a combination of these factors, and it could be I'm full of it. Very possibly the latter. In any event, field trip season is upon us, and in my history as a mommy, I tend to do at least one trip per year per child. Since I've skillfully managed to avoid all the previous ones this year, I was honor-bound to sign up for this, the last field trip of the year. For both of them. To the same beach. In the same week. In fact, Kobi's was Wednesday, Kameron's was Thursday. Woo-hoo! Today's blog will focus on Kobi's Wednesday trip with Mrs. Hayes' class.

Turns out, our local protected beach area, Seahurst Park, was experiencing a convenient series of super-low tides right in the middle of the school day. That translates into about seventy-five (give or take seventy) buses full of children crammed into a parking lot designed for fifteen cars.
The tide was especially low on Kobi's day: Wednesday.

The weather was terrific - mid-seventies, we had our beach-combing shoes on (well, most of us got the memo. a few kids were in flip-flops, some were in what used to be their "good" shoes), we had our sack lunches, and were ready to go!

The bus ride revealed to me another job I will NEVER, by the grace of God, hold: Bus Driver. People say all the time that they couldn't do what I do. Frankly, I don't know how some of you do what you do. Bus Drivers have my utmost respect. Managing that unwieldy vehicle while trying to hear yourself think and keep those little monsters safe . . .? Most def, not for me.

This is Rhonda, our Naturalist and field trip/tide pool guide for the day:

She's the one on the left.

But first, lunch.

Then, play.

Then off to the tide flats we go. . .

Malia searches for signs of life . . .

As her mother braves the fish run
to save a lunch sack:

We found live Sand Dollars . . .

and Sea Stars (aka Starfish).

We learned about crab molts (somewhere a bare-naked crab lurks) .

We watched our steps . . .

and looked under rocks . . .

and really learned a lot.

Thanks, Seahurst Park. See you tomorrow!

The Person Formerly Known as Me

2009-05-27T23:11:00.000-07:00

I feel like mush lately. A few weeks ago, I saw a Bones episode where the obligatory body (after all, it is a show about a forensic anthropologist crime-solver, bodies abound) was found in a field wrapped inside a black plastic trash bag. The former person had been - no delicate way to put this - run through a wood-chipper. So, the bag was full of mush. Is this too graphic? Probably. I'll hurry along, but the visual I'm going for here is that when I saw that bag, I immediately thought, that's what I feel like! A big black trash bag full of yuck that used to be someone.

With the therapy, books I'm reading, and stuff I'm getting from God, I feel more screwed up than ever. I think it's the undoing of all the layers I've wrapped around me over the course of so many years. Like that bag of yuck is me, and the part of me that I thought was real is the part getting stripped away. Not very appealing. And most definitely not sexy.

Ugh. I feel like I'm way too old to be doing this crap. Why in the world do I have to clean out the rotted putrid gunk? What will be left of me? What IS me? Sigh.

No wonder I surround myself with distractions. This healing stuff is way too complicated and difficult. It probably doesn't help that I am forever in a rush to get things done. I'm looking for a step-by-step program outlining specifically what I need to do in order to "finish" this freakin' project 'cause this ain't no fun, folks.

It's beginning to dawn on me that perhaps:

I'm not going to be able to control this process
I shouldn't try
I need to keep repeating numbers 1 and 2 until they get through my thick skull

Dang. Well, if anyone needs me I'll be right here.
Heaped up in this bag.
Waiting.

Getting Out

2009-05-24T21:30:00.000-07:00

Therapist Lisa is very firm about me needing to have some "me" time. This is time, a huge chunk of time to my thinking, when I am OUT of the house and participating with OTHER PEOPLE in something that I find enjoyable, relaxing, or otherwise promotes my sense of aliveness and personhood. She wants me to shoot for three times a week, three hours at a time. Wow. Three hours. Three times a week. Three.

Okay. So, the first thing I did was sign up for a writing class. Cool, that got me out once a week for two hours, plus travel time. Downside: the last class is next week, and I have to find something to replace that. Plus, I haven't found the other two things I'm supposed to like doing. Okay.

Putting on my thinking cap, I realize that since I've been back in Seattle, I've wanted to do something like kayaking. This idea led to much exploration and research on the internet. One problem with a kayak is that they are expensive and large - hard to transport. So, maybe a club? Maybe. We will revisit this another time.

Photography is another love - most of the pics on this blog are mine. So, I got on the Seattle Meetup and found several photography groups. Nothing meeting soon, but I signed up for one group.

The really odd and uncomfortable thing is that the idea of going out cold-turkey and meeting strangers, even strangers who have common interests, is really intimidating. This reaction is probably one of the reasons I have Therapist Lisa in the first place. So. . . what's the solution?
I don't know. Baby steps?

So, my friend, Manager Kimi, and I were talking the other night about our exercise deficit. She reminisced about how she used to walk with friends down at Seward Park, a beautiful tree-filled place on Lake Washington. It happens to be near her house, and the loop is almost 2.5 miles - a nice walk for two women who haven't worked out in a while. We agreed that it would be a great idea to walk together. Then, neither one of us said anything. You know how you don't push the idea, cleverly letting it slip away? That way, you've virtuously discussed the idea, but haven't actually committed to it?

Yeah, then I thought about Therapist Lisa. Three hours, three times a week. Mmk, next thing I know, I'm saying, "How about tomorrow morning? 9:30?" She's agreeing and now I'm stuck. All kinds of reasons I shouldn't, couldn't go - blame it on the kids, oversleep, I'm sure Manager Kimi would be happy to take a pass on it, too. . .

But I didn't. And she didn't. So we did it, and it was nice. Beautiful, even. It was sunny, warm (but not hot), semi-crowded, but not packed, Manager Kimi is great company. . . maybe this getting out with people isn't so bad after all.

We are walking again Tuesday morning before my next appointment with Therapist Lisa. I know I will be glad when we do it, but I feel my mind already trying to wiggle out of it. Yet I know I want to do this! UGH, ugh, ugh!

Will my mind ever shut up and learn its lessons?

Baby steps, right?

"Home" Free Write #1

2009-05-22T14:48:00.000-07:00

I'm in a writing class at the University of Washington - Experimental College, but we meet on campus, so I feel like a somebody after all these years. But, as usual, I digress!

The teacher has us doing a lot of free-writing. And since the focus of the class is memoir writing, most of the prompts revolve around our past. Now, I signed up for this, so I should be having "fun", right? However, I don't think my past is fun. I've spent many years trying to avoid it - see any of my previous posts. Therapist Lisa is certain that digging into what comes up is a good thing; that my sadness and detached feelings are due to me continually devising new and more innovative ways to distract myself from reality. She's probably right. Which is a good thing. Someone needs to know what I'm doing.

So. . . memoir class this week had prompts surrounding "Home". I dug into it with a little trepidation, I must confess. One of the reasons for that became clear when we did a cluster map around the word. I spent the entire time remembering all the places I've lived. When we finished, I'd come up with twenty. Twenty homes in roughly forty years. Well, a little over forty. I'm not saying how much over.

It makes sense then, that I am ambivalent over the concept of Home.

Here is the first free-write:

At this stage in my life, home is both a place I've made for my family, and a place I long to be. This home, the home in Seattle, is keeping me from the one I long for: heaven.

Psalm 73:25 says: "Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you. "

That is how I feel, yet conflicted, because the family God and I have created is intensely a part of me, my heart if you will, and I can't imagine leaving them - especially now.

So here I am, my adopted self, in my adopted home town, with my adopted children and adopted dog, living in a borrowed house. Rooted to them, yet a traveler still. Only here a while.

My prayer for them is love and peace and joy and hope. My love for them is beyond words. My peace is in knowing I am where I should be. My joy is deep and quiet. My Hope is waiting for me, for them, for us. Waiting for us to come home.

Thank you for reading, peace be with you all.

Letting Go

2009-05-18T21:51:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I declined a placement. That means I said "no" to a nine-year-old, needy little girl who's been in a residential treatment center (like a step above a mental hospital) since she was six. Three years of growing up institutionalized. Not in a home. Not with a mommy or a daddy, or any facsimile. Not with her brothers or her sisters (she has five, all in foster homes). No one to tuck her in at night. In fact, according to her paperwork, she often has great distress around bedtime, and has to spend time in the "quiet room". Think a little bigger than a closet. Empty so the child won't hurt herself.

How horrible is that? Put a six, seven, eight year-old girl in a "quiet room" by herself right before bed time? Doesn't the staff have time to read with her, pray with her, kiss her good night? Oh, that's right. They have ten other children in their Cottage (cute name, like a fairy tale or a vacation resort) to get to bed. Oh, and there's no religious indoctrination, so no prayers to comfort the little girl.

Hey, grow up kid. This is a tough world if you haven't figured that out yet. Maybe the fact that before you came to us you were ripped from your home by policemen, medicated, restrained, and moved into several different homes before you landed up in our "treatment facility" should have clued you in. No wonder you don't want to go to bed at night.

The agency I work for brought me her packet. The packet is the thick pile of paperwork that covers much - not all - of a child's life in the system. It includes things like Psych evals, school IEP's (Individual Education Plan, for the "special" kids), and various social worker weekly, quarterly, and annual reviews of her behaviors, placements, medical stuff, etc. It also has court records, that talk about the circumstances of her removal from home and her parent's progress (or lack thereof) toward getting her back, visitation orders, blah blah, blah. They're pretty scary things. Even for an experienced foster parent.

But something in her packet spoke to me. Her age, for one thing. She's still so darned young. My other kids at home are four, eight and nine. She could really fit in. Plus, I have another bedroom. And most importantly, I am pretty certain I could help her. I have years of experience with damaged children. She's at an age where she could definitely stabilize given some serious family time with lots of love and boundaries and hugs. I've seen it happen, and something in her packet called to me.

Now here's the stinky part: I just couldn't say yes. I thought I could. I mentally planned getting the extra bedroom ready, who to contact at our local elementary school, checked into how her visits with her siblings went, talked with my agency about getting a special approval on my foster license for her. . . and the morning of what was to be our first meeting, I canceled.

This hurt on so many levels. The little girl didn't know about me (thankfully), so it wasn't about letting her down, but it really killed me to recognize my own weakness. To actually admit to myself and to the professionals I work with that I couldn't, in fact, do it all. It hurt to leave her there, to not be her rescuer. This thought led me to a twinge of self-awareness: why do I think I am the only rescuer for her? Then I argue: I know the statistics. I know she is unlikely to find a home given all her needs. It's hard enough to get people to take one typical kiddo; these more "involved" children rarely get placed in good, loving homes.

But I can't do it. I can't take another baby girl with intense, high needs and: a) take decent care of the brood I already have; b) get my own act together; which leads to c) a is dependent on b. And adding baby girl would lead to: d) me moving into a state hospital. The whole house of cards would collapse.

My heart is heavy, though. I want so badly to be the instrument God uses to reach this little girl; and that one, and that one, and that one. . .

"learn to do good;
seek justice,
correct oppression;
bring justice to the fatherless,
plead the widow's cause."

Isaiah 1:17

May is Foster Care Awareness Month: My personal prayer is that every family, every person who can, would check his or her heart and see if he, if she, has room for just one child. Just one. Please consider it. Please honestly consider what you can do as part of your community to help one hurting child in a way that is meaningful and maybe sacrificial. They are our children, and our future. Thank you.

Love is . . .

2009-05-14T22:01:00.000-07:00

Today was a strange day. While I attended a luncheon benefiting foster children and trying to raise awareness of the extreme lack of homes in our area, Andrew's mom was in court trying to speed up his return home.

Oddly enough, I sat at a table with a woman who had her children removed from her home years ago, and through that experience, she got sober and eventually got them back. Then, three foster families were spotlighted during the luncheon. One of the mothers spoke briefly about how she and her husband were working with the biological mother of one of their foster sons, and how the mother was working her program and taking college classes, etc.

Now, this is fantastic. I am really happy for these families and how great they are doing; actually making progress, using the system's help to become stable, loving homes for their children. Yay. Really.

But, I've been fostering for over fifteen years. My experience is that this is a rare phenomenon. In fact, I can't think of a single parent of any of my children over the years that did comply with the department's requirements, any that worked at it and cared enough to try to get their children back.

I freely admit that I am jaded and pre-disposed to doubt the bio-parents and their willingness to change in order to keep their children. So, here I am listening to these two people representing families of origin while Andrew's future is being decided.

I won't go into the details of his case. This isn't the place for it. The truth is that he is her child, and not mine. No matter how I feel about him, no matter how my other kids feel, he belongs to her, and if she can get it together and be his mommy, that is the way it should be.

We have the next four weeks to transition him. It's now my job to help him succeed, and give it the best chance possible. That is how I have to love him now.

Andrew is a four-year-old foster child who's been in my home since early November. He came in crisis, after living in seven different homes. His mom came back last year and began the process of getting her sons back. I'll keep everyone posted as appropriate, and definitely appreciate all prayers.

Is This Contributing to My Misery?

2009-05-13T06:53:00.000-07:00

Therapist Lisa says that I have an "overactive, over-developed sense of responsibility". I think that's a nice way to say I'm co-dependent. Or that I have no life of my own and I've chosen to make it this way - ouch ouch ouch.

I don't like hearing that a lot of the mess I'm in is my own doing. I'd much rather blame someone else - for instance, God. After all, isn't He the Supreme Ruler of the Universe? Do I not belong to Him? Therefore, it stands to reason that He can fix all this junk. . . am I right?

Unfortunately, when God created us as His image-bearers, He forgot to make us mindless, will-less, puppets. He gave us choice. Some old, long-dead theologian called it the terrible gift of free will. The thought is that God wants us to want Him. He doesn't want us to love Him because we have to.

But it's a double-edged sword. That rebellious, stubborn part of us that helps us survive this world, that strong spirit we pride ourselves in, is also the part that keeps us shaking our tiny little fists at the loving One who created us. And if you're me, blaming Him for all manner of consequences I've brought on myself and for not running my life the way I want it run. I also tend to blame Him for the nasty choices others have made that damage me. Basically, I want God to be my sugar daddy (do they still say that?), not my God. Not the One who knows best, sees all and will, eventually, put every yucky thing right.

Humm.

So, in line with me taking responsibility for my side of life, for the choices I can make and the things I can control, Lisa gave me this little thought to think before I make a move: will this contribute to my misery?

It fits right in with detaching from the outcome. If I make good choices - ones that won't contribute to my misery (don't you LOVE that word, misery?), and then detach from the outcome (let God be God - not me), theoretically, life will be easier, more joyful, and carefree.

Okay, that sounds too simplistic, doesn't it? But what if she's right? What if it works? What if God - Who I completely believe in - can be trusted?

Wow. . .what a concept. I have to ponder this awhile.

Love you guys - thanks for working through all this with me.

A Mother's Day Post Mortem

2009-05-11T13:00:00.000-07:00

My day began at 6:16 a.m. Kelsey, my nineteen year old, snuck into my room to check on me, then left the house. When she got back about an hour later, all the little kids had been into my room and up on my bed to wish me a Happy Mother's Day. That, and to beg me to let them watch cartoons in my room. I declined. Kesley shooed them out, closed me up in my room, and told me to go back to sleep. As if.

A little later, she returned, bearing fresh coffee, eggs, a magazine, a huge bouquet of flowers from the Pike Place Market, AND a little bag of these awesome mini-doughnuts fresh out of the doughnut maker at the Market. Yumm. A nice hug and kiss, then out the door to round up the kids.

Kesley took over all the mommy duties for the day. Woot! At one point, Andrew came in (I was still in bed, reading), and I referred him back to Kelsey for answers to his many questions. He asked, "Aren't you in charge anymore?" I told him that for today, Kelsey was, not me. Loved it. One of the many difficult things about being a single parent is being the one and only "go to" person in the house. Every single question about every single issue has to come to you. A friend once said to me, "I bet sometimes you feel like saying, 'Who's mom? My name is Misty'". Yes, it gets like that. More lately than it used to.

But yesterday was sweet.

One really special thing I realized, was that out of the nine people in the house (eight young adults and children plus me), only one (Kelsey) was celebrating with her biological mother. And, out of those nine people, only three had one mother. The rest of us had at least two: a bio mom and either an adoptive mom or a foster mom.

Crazy, but true. And it made for a very special day. I got to receive the mommy love from all these kids. Pretty awesome. And I feel very blessed and honored to be able to stand in for the moms whose child I had on loan. Only God knows where we will all be next Mother's Day. Life moves quickly, and change is the norm.

But for me, this one was perfect. Thank you, Kelsey, Kristen, and Elesha. I love you all.

Acceptance

2009-05-06T13:37:00.000-07:00

I think I've known for many years that one of the keys to a contented life is through acceptance. Back in my married years, I attended several Al-Anon and Nar-Anon meetings. One of the things that really stuck with me is the Serenity Prayer. You know:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I can not change,
Courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

As a new Christian, I read an awesome book by Hannah Hurnard: Hinds Feet on High Places. This allegory drawn from the third chapter of Habakkuk follows the journey of Much Afraid as she travels with the Shepherd. At one point, in the desert, she meets a little flower which pushed through the dry, almost concrete-like earth to bloom, all by itself. The flower introduces itself as Acceptance with Joy. It was able to thrive despite its circumstances. Out of the entire book, that is the only part I remember. It struck me then, and obviously, is still with me.

But, on so many levels, acceptance just feels wrong. As an American (as you know, we are pioneers), as an "enlightened" woman, and even as a Christian, I can find rationale for fighting badness - for kicking against the goads as God accused Paul. Doesn't the Bible say not to be overcome by the darkness, but to overcome evil with good? How does that jibe with acceptance? Acceptance feels like giving up. It feels like surrender. Which, I guess, it is.

What I'm maybe starting to grasp - maybe - is that is a both/and thing. Yes, our Creator hard-wired us to rise up against injustice, that's part of being an image-bearer of Him. To hate wrong doers, to protest on behalf of the innocent. It's very scriptural, too. Just check out the Psalms.

However, ultimately, if we believe He is our Lord and that the earth is His and all the fullness thereof . . . then it only makes sense to do what we can, but leave the rest to Him. My problem is with the leaving the rest part.

I am seeing that I tend to push and push and push some more. I get a cause fixed in my mind, decide it's good (which they usually are), and then go full speed ahead. The trouble is, even if I started out doing a job for God, I stop asking Him for guidance, provision, and most importantly, I stop asking Him if this is what He has for me to do. Just because something is good and needful doesn't make it my job. Ouch.

Super-ouch because I've had to utterly fail in order to get the point a few times. I've lost homes, money, friends. . . I have a very thick skull, apparently.

Lisa the Therapist is working with me to fix this. She talks a lot about acceptance: accepting my past, accepting my present, accepting my future. It shapes out like this: I need to accept reality - how I feel about stuff, damage that I've done, damage that's been done to me. . . I'm learning to say, "I cannot change this. I will never have (fill in the blank)", or "I may never have (fill in the blank)." And further, as a Christian, that God may never fix this or change that. He may never give me the outcome I want and am convinced I need.

Can I be okay with that? If nothing ever changes, if I never see justice done here on earth, if I never get my deepest desires, will I still belong to Him and trust Him? Will I still believe? Will I believe that He is good?

Or will I turn my back on Him, pouting and sullen because He didn't do things my way?

If I am convinced that He is God, the Creator of universes, time, matter. . . how can I possibly be so sure that I know anything at all, let alone what's best for me and the rest of the world? There's a passage in Job that says it well:

Then Job replied to the LORD:
I know that you can do all things; no plan of yours can be thwarted.
You asked, "Who is this that obscures my counsel without knowledge?"
Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know.

You said "Listen now, and I will speak; I will question you and you shall answer me."
My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you.
Therefore I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes.

Job 42: 1-6 NIV

I'm hopeful that I will get better at accepting. 'Cause endlessly struggling and striving has tuckered me out. I need a vacation. Anyone available to babysit?