Such a Terrific Day

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!

Big Dreams

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

Baby Tessa is here!!

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

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"?

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!

Me Who Used to Be Queen

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.

What I Did on My Summer "Vacation"

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.

What a Beautiful Day

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

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

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

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.

Nothing Earth-Shattering to Say...

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!

Letting Go

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 . . .

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.

A Mother's Day Post Mortem

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.

Sunday Afternoon Chores

So we mowed the lawn yesterday. I say we because, in my family, it takes a village to mow a lawn. Klaryssia appointed herself picker-upper of the shorn grass; Andrew (the youngest) manned the rake; Kameron (my nine year-old who doesn't walk yet) kept a watchful eye on the mower - because he LOVES LOVES LOVES loud, noisy machines, like vacuums and motorcycles - and Kobi? My eight year old manikin head-loving son? Well, Kobi was dressed for church in his light-colored khakis, white kicks, and his snazzy button-up short-sleeved shirt. Not exactly yard work attire, but Kobi rolls like that. I expect that he will be one of those guys who sends his jeans to the dry cleaners so they get a good crease. Seriously, he folds his jammies BEFORE he puts them on. Really. I'm not kidding here.

Anyway, back to the lawn.

In a perfect world, I like to do this job during the week when the kids are in school. The reasons for that will become apparent. This time, however, I had a few complications. First of all, this is Seattle, and no matter what I say, it does rain a lot. So the challenge is, of course, to find a non-rainy day. It's helpful if this non-rainy day falls on a day when I actually am home in order to mow. Often, this is enough to keep me from mowing for weeks. A fact that bugs the HECK out of me.

So, the first chance I got, I dashed to the garage to whip out the mower. Unfortunately, I forgot that last summer my big awesome mower croaked. No funds to repair. Okay, so back-up mower. No gas. Okay, so I'll go get gas. No money. Hummm. This is delay numero dos.

A few days later, I had money and got the gas (well, actually I sent Kelsey to get the gas since she was over at the house for something). Unfortunately, it was late in the day, kids came home, homework, toileting (Kameron), blah blah - no mowing.

Next day. I am planning on working after I get the mowing done. It rained.

And so it goes until yesterday. It was Sunday, but we didn't go to church because little Andrew has yet another cold and the Swine Flu has everyone super-enforcing their sick policies, darn them. No sneaking him into the nursery, no church. And so, voila, mowing day.

One little problemo - all this rain and lack of mowing leads to. . . you guessed it! A very tall lawn! And, since it rained Saturday (see post below), it was long, wet grass. Kinda hard to mow in the first place. But hey, I'm freaking super-mom (ha), so we WILL mow this grass. My plan was to sneak out back while the boys were out front and get 'er done. Unfortunately, mowers are a little loud, and they are a lot curious. They were back there seconds after I got the mower going.

Next problemo: the mower has no grass catcher. The wet, long, grass proceeded to jam up the blade on the mower. Like on the very first pass. Stop, open the little hatch, pull all the cut grass out, set the blade free, pull the cord, start the mower up again. Next pass. . . sputters to a stop. Open the hatch, pull all the cut grass out, set the blade free, pull the cord, start the mower up again. I am not kidding, the mower got jammed every single pass. At one point, it didn't even make it that far.

Now, while I am quoting "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" in my mind, and sweating like a monkey (if they sweat), I have my four little "helpers" helping me.

Klaryssia is shouting over the mower at me (like I can hear), grabbing up the grass as I toss it out from the little hatch, and walking about two inches behind me. I can't hear her, so when I back up to try to free the blade, I knock her down. I lost track of how many times this happened.

Andrew is holding the rake, which is probably four times taller than him, and flailing about trying to rake up grass I haven't cut yet. He's also helping by knocking the heads off all the pretty white dandilion "flowers". Woo Hoo, he's planting future weeds for me.

Kobi starts out picking up some of the grass, gets bored, starts climbing on the steps to the gazebo and jumping off the rail. Right where I'm mowing. After I scream a few times, he gets the picture and helps by going off to ride his bike. Yay. One down. Meanwhile, Kameron (who I left in the front yard with a basketball), has managed to make his way through the side yard, over rocks and through natural hazards to appear in the back yard. The siren call of the mower was too much for him. I wasn't surprised.

Kameron joined Andrew and Klaryssia in their little huddle around me, and promptly declared that the rake was his. As you might expect, chaos ensued, I mowed on. I can't recall how long it took to finish the back yard - stopping every four or five seconds to clear the grass, frantically watching all around to ensure that the kids kept all their body parts intact, trying to get them the heck away from the mower. . . it was a mommie nightmare.

By the time I got to the front yard, they were bored - thank You, Jesus - and I got that part done pretty quickly. Of course, by then I was exhausted and thinking a tall glass of wine (cold and white) sounded awesome. Unfortunately, it was only around 11:00 am, and I decided I should wait a few more hours. Thankfully, the grass got cut, no one got seriously hurt (Kobi's white kicks got a little grass-stained, but what the heck), and one more Chore got crossed off my list for now.

That night, at dinner, I heard from them all what a good job I did, and what great helpers they were.

Indeed. Couldn't have done it without them.

Rainy Saturdays

Sorry for all the parent talk, but since I appear to be a life-long mom, and now have these freaky little boys, it's on my mind a lot.

Today, Kobi and Andrew are wearing t-shirts on their heads and shaking their "booties". Let me be clear, I don't watch much "bootie shaking" on TV. I am not a proponent of "bootie shaking", although, in my sordid past, I was. So where this nonsense is coming from is a mystery to me. Why can't they just play with trucks and guns like other boys?

Meanwhile, Kameron is sitting on the toilet screaming and laughing. I expect him to momentarily start turning around to view his poop (another boy thing, I guess), which will lead to smears on the seat...you see where this is going. Yuck.

Meanwhile, I'm doing laundry, wiping down tables, helping my 21 year old with a three page essay - over the din.

Such is a rainy Saturday in the Rainwater manse. My monologue consist of lots of "NO", "Go to your room", "Stay out of his room", "Don't pull down your pants", mixed in with a generous helping of "No running in the house" and, that classic, "BECAUSE I SAID SO".

Helping with chores? Sweet pancake breakfasts as a family? Perhaps a family outing?

Nope.

I need to get out more. Or someday, people will be hearing about us on the evening news. Just kidding.

I think.

Detaching From the Outcome Part Deux

I've been a foster parent for like fifteen years. During those years, I can not count how many people have said to me two things. One: "I don't know how you do it", and two: "It would just kill me to have a child come into my home, fall in love with them, and then send them back".

To answer both questions, I have no idea how I do it - seriously, it's God 'cause I am so woefully inadequate to be a parent. If I had to write up a resume (an honest one including my sordid past), you'd think so, too. So there's that grace factor, big time.

To answer the second...it does kill you.

I've had many children in my home over the years. Actually I don't know how many, because I've never counted them up, but it's more than a few and less than a ton. Let's say, a passel.

Some of them came and left abruptly. In the beginning of my illustrious professional mommyhood, I had a teenage girl, we'll call her Helen, who was in my house for less than 2 hours. We picked her up at the Juvenile detention center, drove by the MALL for something, and guess what? Helen leaped from the car, took off into an apartment complex, and was never seen again.

Some kids were only short term. They and their families needed a break, and then they go home to continue working things out. That's terrific, of course. Some kids come so angry and so damaged that no matter what you do, no matter how much of you you pour into their life, it isn't enough and they have to move on. Usually those moves are after several weeks and months of trying, and the reason for the move is to keep the other children safe (and me sane). Those moves are sad, too, because you want them desperately to "get it". To realize the hope you are trying to offer them - but all you can do is pray hard and realize that sometimes all we get to do is plant seeds. Even kids have the right to make bad choices.

Then you have the rip your heart out moves. My first one was early in my fostering "career". Kesley and Kris were around six and nine, and this beautiful little Native American/African American girl was placed in our home. She was maybe two, possibly almost three. Cute as anything, yet so serious and sad. She came to us suddenly, with a quick call and barely time to find out her history. The social worker breezed in with Chelsie, dropped off her and her tiny toy suitcase with her belongings, and left - saying over her shoulder, "You might think about adoption, we are planning to terminate parental rights".

Whoa. Well, of course, we promptly fell in love with this brooding little toddler. We got to work getting her to smile, helping her walk (because she wasn't yet), in general, investing into her little broken life trying to heal her with kindness, gentleness, stability, and love.

It was working. After the first two weeks or so, Chelsie smiled. Then, she laughed. Wow.

She would walk with the big kids and me down our long, dirt driveway every morning to wait for the school bus. Kelsey was completely smitten with this "baby sister". Kind of like a little doll that gave hugs and kisses. Chelsie loved Kelsey, too.

Then I got the call. Mom had enlisted the aid of the Tribal Council and they were taking over the case. Chelsie was being returned to her mom. The next day. No transition time, no warning, just back to mom. Boom. Kelsey still talks about it, remembers it, remembers Chelsie. I do, too.

Over the course of fifteen years, this type of sudden, painful moving of children happened several times. Again, I didn't keep count, but each time, whatever the reason, whoever was to "blame", it still hurt. It still needed grieving because these are little people we are talking about here. They wrap their little selves all around your heart and a chunk of yours goes with them when they leave.

So, here we are again. I've been fostering little Andrew since November of last year. He's four. He had and has anger issues. He is absolutely entitled to, he's been in eight homes in his short life. Never any warning to him, no preparation, just hop in the car with the social worker for an outing, and end up in a new bed that night. Try explaining that. Try understanding it. When you are four.

I loved on that little man thoroughly. Firm boundaries: "We don't say those words, Andrew. We don't throw shoes at people or windows or doors, Andrew. We don't spit, hit, slap, bite, scream...". From rages lasting hours at the beginning, he now can take a fairly decent little time-out in his room (four minutes on the timer, once he stops screaming). He gives hugs and kisses. He is a funny, sweet, caring little guy.

The only time he gets scared and shuts down is when he is seeing his mom. I don't need to go into any of it here - it doesn't matter anyway. Suffice it to say that mom has an attorney, and the state is now moving forward on Andrew returning home within 90 days. Mom's attorney wants it to go faster, but who knows?

Here we are again. It's hard to grieve well in these circumstances. I heard a foster mom just the other day say it's like being told your child has a terminal disease but they give you the exact date and time of his or her death. Yeah, it's like that. Add in being strong for the kiddo, not verbally or visibly worried about him going back to the situation that got him in your home in the first place and being strong for the rest of your children - they will be grieving too.

How do we do this well as a foster parent and a family? I have no freakin' idea.

Like I said, a chunk of my heart will go with Andrew too. I will always remember him, pray for him, love him. He is my son. But, she is his mommy. I will wrap him up in a blanket of love and place him in my Father's huge, amazing hands and trust - really trust - that He, Andrew's real Dad, has it under control.

And then, I will probably do it all again. Because everyone needs someone to love them.