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

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

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

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. . .

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"

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

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!

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

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

Little Andrew Update:

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. . .

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

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

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.

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?

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...

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. . .

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?

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.