These are my muskateers; my best friends I've shared the heartaches and joys of motherhood with for the last 15 years. We have few secrets. Our hearts are open. I love these ladies like sisters. When I am with them, I feel complete.Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
children
They love me. It is surprising, but they do. One in Sacramento, one in Stockton, one in Holland, and one at home. I miss the younger them, but am enjoying the adults they have become.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Angel Children
I let my 5 oldest children go quietly today. Melissa, David, Marie, Keith, and little Craig. It was time to let them spread their wings and fly. To do the things I raised them to do. They watched over me for over 25, maybe 30 years. Now I let my angel children go.
Café au lait skin Dark curly hair Sweet smiles Gentle hands
Giggling laughter Late night talking Loving expressions
“When can we go?”
Why couldn’t they stay? Will they miss me? What went wrong? Why couldn’t I hold them?
Sorrow Joy Love Release
Angel Babies Angel Babies Angel Babies Angel Babies
Sunday, April 10, 2011
My son, now 20, disowned me yesterday because I refuse to call him a woman. He is a transvestite who feels he is a woman in every way. He says I make him feel like he is doing something wrong when I call him by his male name. I told him I could accept him being gay but I would not accept his belief he was a woman. He periodically tells us he is pregnate. I am sorry he feels he has to disown us. I told him that, when one chooses a lifestyle contrary to society, that one has to accept some people won't accept it. He can't force me to say he is a girl. I can't force him to be a man. I thought we were doing fine, that we understood each other. I understand it hurts him too much. I went through that when I was married to my first husband who was African American. My father threatened to kill me and my husband. I lived a double life. It almost killed me. I hurt that my son feels that. I always looked forward to him turning 18 - I thought all the troubles and pain would stop then. It's almost worse than when he was growing up. To make matters worse (from my viewpoint) his birthmother accepts him as a woman. Well, she didn't raise him - he was taken from her at age 3 for abuse and neglect. She didn't go through all the hell, but she gets the benefits of him now. He told me she was his real mom because she accepts him as he is. I am tired of him playing me against her. A real mom is the one who loves you and takes care of you and is there for you. A birthmom gives you life. Both are crucial. I am babbling now so I will stop.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
thoughts
I've had to choose twice now. The first time broke my heart; the second shattered my soul. I am having a horrendous time trying to go on; trying to keep putting that one foot in front of the other. Desperation for relief from the emotional pain conquer my thoughts. I ponder all my religious beliefs, moral feelings, people I'd hurt. More choices to consider. For once, I want the right one for me.
Seven years ago, we sat in a courtroom of our broken mental health system, swearing to tell the truth, refusing to bring our then 12 year old adopted bipolar son home from his latest psychiatric hospital committment. My husband and I took on child abandonment charges, gave up our parental rights/custody and accepted a lien on our home to try to get help for this mentally ill child. It was a living death for us. But we had three other children at home, endangered by this son's mental illness. My heart broke. Literally. I had a mild heart attack several months later. The heart patched back together, but was never whole again.
Seven days ago, this scene was relived. We have been raising our nephew for the last three years, since he was five years old, as his parents were incapable to do so. Dad has terminal cancer and Mom was in prision. We expected the anger, the depression, the acting out our nephew would do. As he grew older, though, it became worse. In the last year, he has raged and become more destructive. In the mist of it all, our youngest adopted daughter tried to committe suicide, after six months previously being busted for drugs at school, and was placed in an adolescent psych hospital for 7 days where she was diagnosed bipolar. Between the two children, our home had become a war zone. An absolute living hell.
Seven days ago, our nephew and his friend had their first overnighter at our house. In the middle of the night, the messed with my camera (deleting ALL the Yosemite pictures we had taken 3 days previously), messed with the television (which had to have the cable company repair), messed with my computer (I'm still fixing that). and downloaded games onto my husband's cellphone (I just convinced the phone company to delete the $67.00 worth he'd downloaded onto my phone while hiding with it in his room one evening.) Now, all that is forgivable and can be dealt with.
The boys set fires on our heirloom marble and maple wood coffee table. The nephew had gone through my purse (another no no) looking for batteries to replace in my camera they had been using and found a lighter I had confiscated from daughter, dropped in my purse, and forgotten about months before. They lit dollar bills ("because those aren't worth anything"), computer paper, and napkins. The marble on the table is scorched. One edge of the wooden ledge is burned. NO REMORSE FROM NEPHEW. "If you don't want me to do things, you should put them away or lock them up. It's not my fault. I was bored."
A few hours later, after the friend and his appalled with is son father left, after still no remorse or taking responsibility for anything he'd done, I (with nephew's father being there) called the police to see if they could talk to the child. Nephew was just a rude and defiant with the police as with us. When asked by the officer why he didn't think he needed to mind us or follow our rules, he responded "They have really stupid rules, so I make my own and follow them. It's not fair that I get in trouble for following my own rules." He then proceeded to tell the officer how much he hated our family and didn't want to live here. He was tired of being told what to do and could take care of himself. The officer was appalled with Nephew's tone, attitude, and behavior and told him so. Nephew rolled his eyes. Long story short - he is now in the local childrens' shelter until a foster home is found. (Sounds of shattering of my soul enter here.)
Daughter is thrilled that now she gets to be the only child. Husband said, "Well, we did have some good times with that young man." I get all that. I understand all that. Friends/Professionals say "You did the best you could. It is not your fault." I get all that. IT DOES NOT HELP.
God does give you more than you can handle and trials don't make you stronger. "Be care what you ask for" has more credibility. I wanted four children but I cannot stay pregnate due to my female birth defects. We were blessed with being able to adopt the four. Three are ADHD and two of those are diagnosed bipolar. ADOPTIONS LIED TO US. I am angry and hurt and scared and let-down and depressed. I can barely function, let alone think coherently through these emotions.
My belief in God keeps me here. I don't want to go to Hell. However, I wonder if Hell is here on earth; if I am already there. Lately, Dante's Inferno has been creeping into my thoughts. Feelings of travelling down through the levels of Hell. Lights at the other end of the tunnel, going the opposite direction from me. Broken hearted, shattered soul....not enough superglue to keep it together.
I. AM. SAD.
Seven years ago, we sat in a courtroom of our broken mental health system, swearing to tell the truth, refusing to bring our then 12 year old adopted bipolar son home from his latest psychiatric hospital committment. My husband and I took on child abandonment charges, gave up our parental rights/custody and accepted a lien on our home to try to get help for this mentally ill child. It was a living death for us. But we had three other children at home, endangered by this son's mental illness. My heart broke. Literally. I had a mild heart attack several months later. The heart patched back together, but was never whole again.
Seven days ago, this scene was relived. We have been raising our nephew for the last three years, since he was five years old, as his parents were incapable to do so. Dad has terminal cancer and Mom was in prision. We expected the anger, the depression, the acting out our nephew would do. As he grew older, though, it became worse. In the last year, he has raged and become more destructive. In the mist of it all, our youngest adopted daughter tried to committe suicide, after six months previously being busted for drugs at school, and was placed in an adolescent psych hospital for 7 days where she was diagnosed bipolar. Between the two children, our home had become a war zone. An absolute living hell.
Seven days ago, our nephew and his friend had their first overnighter at our house. In the middle of the night, the messed with my camera (deleting ALL the Yosemite pictures we had taken 3 days previously), messed with the television (which had to have the cable company repair), messed with my computer (I'm still fixing that). and downloaded games onto my husband's cellphone (I just convinced the phone company to delete the $67.00 worth he'd downloaded onto my phone while hiding with it in his room one evening.) Now, all that is forgivable and can be dealt with.
The boys set fires on our heirloom marble and maple wood coffee table. The nephew had gone through my purse (another no no) looking for batteries to replace in my camera they had been using and found a lighter I had confiscated from daughter, dropped in my purse, and forgotten about months before. They lit dollar bills ("because those aren't worth anything"), computer paper, and napkins. The marble on the table is scorched. One edge of the wooden ledge is burned. NO REMORSE FROM NEPHEW. "If you don't want me to do things, you should put them away or lock them up. It's not my fault. I was bored."
A few hours later, after the friend and his appalled with is son father left, after still no remorse or taking responsibility for anything he'd done, I (with nephew's father being there) called the police to see if they could talk to the child. Nephew was just a rude and defiant with the police as with us. When asked by the officer why he didn't think he needed to mind us or follow our rules, he responded "They have really stupid rules, so I make my own and follow them. It's not fair that I get in trouble for following my own rules." He then proceeded to tell the officer how much he hated our family and didn't want to live here. He was tired of being told what to do and could take care of himself. The officer was appalled with Nephew's tone, attitude, and behavior and told him so. Nephew rolled his eyes. Long story short - he is now in the local childrens' shelter until a foster home is found. (Sounds of shattering of my soul enter here.)
Daughter is thrilled that now she gets to be the only child. Husband said, "Well, we did have some good times with that young man." I get all that. I understand all that. Friends/Professionals say "You did the best you could. It is not your fault." I get all that. IT DOES NOT HELP.
God does give you more than you can handle and trials don't make you stronger. "Be care what you ask for" has more credibility. I wanted four children but I cannot stay pregnate due to my female birth defects. We were blessed with being able to adopt the four. Three are ADHD and two of those are diagnosed bipolar. ADOPTIONS LIED TO US. I am angry and hurt and scared and let-down and depressed. I can barely function, let alone think coherently through these emotions.
My belief in God keeps me here. I don't want to go to Hell. However, I wonder if Hell is here on earth; if I am already there. Lately, Dante's Inferno has been creeping into my thoughts. Feelings of travelling down through the levels of Hell. Lights at the other end of the tunnel, going the opposite direction from me. Broken hearted, shattered soul....not enough superglue to keep it together.
I. AM. SAD.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Loss
Losing Andrew
Does it hurt any less
Because it is the second time or fourth or sixth?
Does the pain feel any different
When it is the second time or fourth or sixth?
How many heartbreaks
Until your heart irreparable breaks?
Is it the second time or fourth or sixth?
The hole gets deeper faster each time.
Slippery slide down.
Sometimes there are mogul like hills that pop-up
tormenting the mind with glimpses of light,
Chances of joy,
Feelings of competence.
The descent is long and hard.
Long
And
Hard.
Climbing back up is even more difficult,
Seemingly impossible.
And each time the heartbreaks,
the slide begins again
And the rock climb sharper
With less to hang on to.
Tenacity is imperative.
Faith is essential.
Self-talk, successes, remembrances helpful
Drama class comes in handy
“Doing great, doing fine.”
(slippery slide slippery slide)
How many heartbreaks
Until your heart irreparable breaks?
Is it the second time or fourth or sixth?
How many?
Does it hurt any less
Because it is the second time or fourth or sixth?
Does the pain feel any different
When it is the second time or fourth or sixth?
How many heartbreaks
Until your heart irreparable breaks?
Is it the second time or fourth or sixth?
The hole gets deeper faster each time.
Slippery slide down.
Sometimes there are mogul like hills that pop-up
tormenting the mind with glimpses of light,
Chances of joy,
Feelings of competence.
The descent is long and hard.
Long
And
Hard.
Climbing back up is even more difficult,
Seemingly impossible.
And each time the heartbreaks,
the slide begins again
And the rock climb sharper
With less to hang on to.
Tenacity is imperative.
Faith is essential.
Self-talk, successes, remembrances helpful
Drama class comes in handy
“Doing great, doing fine.”
(slippery slide slippery slide)
How many heartbreaks
Until your heart irreparable breaks?
Is it the second time or fourth or sixth?
How many?
Monday, July 13, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
My children's birthmom
Twenty minutes ago I called my youngest 3 children's birthmom. My youngest son, age 18, was home on a four hour pass from the mental facility and we let them talk. She and I have been emailing for several months now, since the letter she sent me when she found us a few months back. Today is the first time we actually spoke. I always wanted to hate her. I can't. It is so different, hearing things from her perspective. She has the sweetest voice. I told her I wanted to hate her but that I couldn't. I thanked her for the lives and gift of my children. I blessed her and told her I loved her. We both cried.
When my son first got home tonight, his dad and I read a letter that his bmom had written to him this week. It was a beautiful letter. He got the biggest look of joy on his face. He wanted to talk with her. I found the number and dialed, then gave him the phone.
I pray this helps heal my son and his bmom. And us.
I wanted to throw up after the phone call because my son called her Mama, just like he calls me, and told her how much he loves her. He was 3 1/2 when he became our son. I tried to think of how to handle this. "You have two moms and we're not even gay!" I joked. My son laughed so hard! He is gay, and that just tickled him. I asked if he was okay, and he said yes. He said he doesn't feel so hurting.
Heavenly Father, please bless my son and heal him. Please give him strategies to deal with his mental illness of being bipolar so he can live on his own and have a good life. Bless us all, Lord. We are family.
Our son has the best sense of humor. We even make jokes about him being in the mental facility, about being "crazy," adoption, race. It probably sounds inappropriate to others, but sometimes he starts it, sometimes we do. Our family uses humor to get through hard things. We are also scarcastic - unfortunately, the kids get that from me and my husband.
So, tonight we fulfilled one of our son's dreams and made it through an adoptive parent's fear. It all turned out fine. God is good.
When my son first got home tonight, his dad and I read a letter that his bmom had written to him this week. It was a beautiful letter. He got the biggest look of joy on his face. He wanted to talk with her. I found the number and dialed, then gave him the phone.
I pray this helps heal my son and his bmom. And us.
I wanted to throw up after the phone call because my son called her Mama, just like he calls me, and told her how much he loves her. He was 3 1/2 when he became our son. I tried to think of how to handle this. "You have two moms and we're not even gay!" I joked. My son laughed so hard! He is gay, and that just tickled him. I asked if he was okay, and he said yes. He said he doesn't feel so hurting.
Heavenly Father, please bless my son and heal him. Please give him strategies to deal with his mental illness of being bipolar so he can live on his own and have a good life. Bless us all, Lord. We are family.
Our son has the best sense of humor. We even make jokes about him being in the mental facility, about being "crazy," adoption, race. It probably sounds inappropriate to others, but sometimes he starts it, sometimes we do. Our family uses humor to get through hard things. We are also scarcastic - unfortunately, the kids get that from me and my husband.
So, tonight we fulfilled one of our son's dreams and made it through an adoptive parent's fear. It all turned out fine. God is good.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
March and April 2009
Hali and Julie March 2009
Robin and Coralee 1988?
Sarah and Andrew in SF 
Robin and Coralee 1988?
Sarah and Andrew in SF
Paul, golfing the weeds away!
My brother, George, April 2009 at Angel's Cafe in SF
Friday, March 20, 2009
Project 365 Pictures last week of February 2009
I have watched the homeless sleep next to these grates on cold, rainy nights. There is no cover from the rain.
It always amazes me the amount of time and money tourists spend waiting for and paying for the short cable car rides. It is an historical part of SF's history, but not the real SF at all!My brother has cancer. These are just some of the meds he takes several times daily. Thousands of dollars worth of pills monthly. Praise God for insurance.
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Two of my brothers and two nephews about five years ago. The brother in the middle has the cancer. We are now raising the youngest boy. Life changes in a minute.
This is an old, old newspaper page from the Contra Costa Times in Contra Costa County, CA. It contains my birth announcement. The coolest part is, the girl who has been my bestest friend since we were 13 (we are now 55) is on the same page, as is a guy I dated in High School. Fate!
Friday, February 20, 2009
Project 365
I am doing the "Project 365" from Creating Keepsakes. I am taking pictures weekly, rather than daily, though to journal my year. Here are some pictures I took today at Mickie Grove Zoo and Park where my friend, Chauntae, and I took our kids:
The younger kids looking at animals
The younger kids looking at animals
Buds on a tree
This one is the reflection of a tree in the pond:
...and in the end
At 18,
coming of age in a group home,
is just not the same.
Blow-ups, blow-outs are met with restraints, police, and visits to mental hospitals.
Being held down
as the staff jams a calming injection into the arm.
Injections that make you slur words, shake, and sleep.
Even less freedom than before.
Choices are even more forced.
Free-will is non-existant.
No future.
No fun.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Never give up
6-20-08
I have been following several threads and conversations from my support group of families going through the same situations we went through with Todd. It is heart-breaking. All are adoptive/foster/going through the process families. Common strings through-out are "How do we get help for our child." "It feels like the system is fighting us, rather than trying to help." "I feel so alone." Each step is hard-won, each a victory in itself. The most difficult of all this, I have found, is the feeling of helplessness as we watch our children flail through life day by day, unable to help or get help as they gradually destroy themselves. That sentence will probably anger some parents, especially those in the mist of the fight for their child. I admire and am even envious of all the parents who keep fighting and are able to keep an help their child in their home. For a long time, after we gave up our rights to our son - even now - I felt like we failed him. Like we abandoned him. Logically I know we did the right thing for him. He is a child who cannot live in family setting. He needs much more rigid structure for success. Even so, the mental illness has increased in its hold on our boy. We have not seen him for 2 years. We seldom talk with him on the phone. He and I do email periodically. I keep in close contact with Todd's social worker. We reinterate over and over our love for our son. I am reminded of a saying "desperate times need desperate measures." I want my book to give hope to other parents going through the seemingly futile process of getting help for their children. I want my readers to understand there are different kinds of help for our children and hopefully, help parents not feel like failures if the hope ends up a residential placement for their child. Selfishly, I am also trying to ease my own pain, my own feelings of failure and doubt. I want to know in my heart, logically and emotionally, that we did everything we could. And our story is not over. A scripture I love and keep in mind is
I have been following several threads and conversations from my support group of families going through the same situations we went through with Todd. It is heart-breaking. All are adoptive/foster/going through the process families. Common strings through-out are "How do we get help for our child." "It feels like the system is fighting us, rather than trying to help." "I feel so alone." Each step is hard-won, each a victory in itself. The most difficult of all this, I have found, is the feeling of helplessness as we watch our children flail through life day by day, unable to help or get help as they gradually destroy themselves. That sentence will probably anger some parents, especially those in the mist of the fight for their child. I admire and am even envious of all the parents who keep fighting and are able to keep an help their child in their home. For a long time, after we gave up our rights to our son - even now - I felt like we failed him. Like we abandoned him. Logically I know we did the right thing for him. He is a child who cannot live in family setting. He needs much more rigid structure for success. Even so, the mental illness has increased in its hold on our boy. We have not seen him for 2 years. We seldom talk with him on the phone. He and I do email periodically. I keep in close contact with Todd's social worker. We reinterate over and over our love for our son. I am reminded of a saying "desperate times need desperate measures." I want my book to give hope to other parents going through the seemingly futile process of getting help for their children. I want my readers to understand there are different kinds of help for our children and hopefully, help parents not feel like failures if the hope ends up a residential placement for their child. Selfishly, I am also trying to ease my own pain, my own feelings of failure and doubt. I want to know in my heart, logically and emotionally, that we did everything we could. And our story is not over. A scripture I love and keep in mind is
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Pregnancy
"Mom, I have to tell you something. I'm pregnate" strikes fear into any mom's heart when it is her teenager uttering the owrds. Imagine it coming from your son. And him truly believing it. The last six months, my son, you have told me this over and over. I cannot make you understand it is impossible. The doctors and psychiatrists cannot convince you, even with xrays. We love you so much. When I visit Uncle in SF, I see gays and transvestites on the streets, in the stores. I don't care if you are gay or if you cross-dress. But I cannot support your thinking you have a uterus.
Perfect Parenting
My children would never tantrum. My children would never nag. I would never spank or yell. I was an awesome parent before I had children!!
Flashbacks
It doesn't take much. A word. A look. A smell. At Relay for Life, some teenage boys did a short run, wearing formals and all made-up and hair styled. I fell apart. Crying, shaking. "Get out of here!" I screamed when they came towards our booth. Poor kids. It was a fund raising thing for them. When my nephew pulls tantrums like Todd used to - like nephew is doing today, right now - it is so difficult not to loose it. I lock myself in my room or my bathroom until I can react calmly. Post-traumatic stress disorder - PTSD - I think is what is happening to me. Horrific. My poor son. My poor self.
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