SAD TIMES

We went to the funeral of a 27 year old last week. A vibrant young man with two small boys and a mom and dad who adored him. On the day he was killed, he was taking the oldest child to preschool.

It seems he wasn't paying attention. There was this intersection, see, and the truck driver wasn't paying attention either. Semi trumps pickup in almost all circumstances.

The kids weren't really hurt. They wore seat belts. but Dad was thrown from the vehicle and hit the semi with such force that the "F" from the semi grill was chisled onto the young man's forehead. He ended up under the truck--buried in grain.

He just wasn't paying attention.

The accident brought back so many memories and feelings. My son's death was no accident. He was murdered, and the murderer is in prison. Still, the result was the same as my young friend's outcome: death.

My son became trapped in the world of alcohol addiction before I realized it had happened. He withdrew from us, his grades plummeted, he forsook all his friends in favor of the "wrong crowd." A crowd he felt sure would accept him.

And I wasn't paying attention.

If only Dusty Martin had worn his seatbelt that day. If only he had slowed at the country intersection.
If only Chad had stayed away from the kind of people who use one another to feel self worth. If only I had watched more carefully and intervened sooner.

If only we all had paid attention.

SCHOOL'S IN!

School's in. Guess it's time to get off the bench and quit griping...after this one last complaint>>





The sure sign that you're getting old is when you keep referring to the past as "the good old days."
You know: In the good old days we wore garter belts--darned if I know how we managed to walk when we hooked our bobby socks up to 'em!
In the good old days parents didn't hear the kind of disrespect they hear from teens today. Of course, hearing aids have improved----
In the good old days, we had to memorize the names of all the presidents--of course, there were fewer then.

But that brings up the subject of school. Of course it could just be that time seems to go faster for a Beyonder, but school seems to come sooner each year. It started here on August 17th. A lot of parents haven't even taken their summer vacation by then.

WHAT ARE THEY THINKING! ( The school board, I mean.)

I noticed on the school calendar that there are 12 no-school days built into the school year besides holidays for something called "teacher inservices."
Now, if a teacher isn't teaching, isn't he "out of service?

Presumably, they need this time to plan and learn new teaching methods and drink Pepsi.
Oh, the poor teachers of yesteryear!
How did they survive without teacher inservices?

And if we, the parents, decide to take our child out of school and treat them to a tour of--say, the Denver Mint, you know, an educational field trip--it rocks the system. We need pre-excused absences. We need permission to take our own children with us. And if we don't get that permission, the child is docked a grade point. How is it that we can't take our children out of school one day, but teachers can dismiss them 12 days a year?

My foster child had counseling in a neighboring town once a week. In previous years, we just had them note that on his charts. Now, even if I sign him out, I have to have a note from the psychologist saying that is where I actually took the kid.

But school is in session, and there is nothing I can do about it. I am back to checking homework ( hey, did you ever look at an answer, go "HMMM" and tell the kid to check it again--all because you had no idea of how to solve it? I have. Ha ha. ) Seriously, there are a number of sites that offer free online IMMEDIATE help with homework questions. There are links to several on my web site, along with short descriptions of the sites. Click on this page: http://beyonderqueen.net/id19.html

And, if your back's been bothering you lately, try unhooking your bobby socks from those little metal fasteners on the garter belt. Oh well, even that looks a lot more comfortable than having a thong shoved between---oh well, you get the point. In the good old days, we didn't------

COMMON SENSE? THE WAY THINGS WERE

OKAY. We have a sixteen year old foster daughter and her 4 mo old baby--new ground for the DSS and for us.

"Mentor her, " they said. Teach her how to parent. So I tried. turns out, everything I did with my kids was wrong.

I put my kids on their stomachs to sleep. Why? The doctor warned me that putting them on their backs could lead to them spitting up and choking to death. But we don't put babies on their stomachs to sleep now. We put them on their backs. By the time the foster baby has kids, they'll want you to suspend them upside down from a harness.

Doctors warned parents against giving kids pacifiers when my children were little. I did it anyway--it made the nights longer. But they said not to do it. It creates dependency and malformed teeth.
The WIC nurse told our foster daughter to give her baby a pacifier until he was 9 mo old, then take it away. It seems to lessen the incidence of SIDS, she said. But after 9 mo, it deforms their mouths. That explains why my kids always talked out of both sides of their mouths when they were teenagers.

I gave my babies bottles of water once in a while. Especially in the heat--especially when I ran out of formula and couldn't fix a bottle until I went to the store ( first I had to find my shoes)
That was wrong. You should never ever ever give a baby water. Nowadays, wisdom says they could drown if given too much water. Who knew?

And when my babies had constipation--when all they could pass was hard little rabbit pellets, I swished a little Karo syrup in their formula. ( I used the rest to stick bows into their hair)
Another no-no. The sage advice now? Give them a little bit of water ( but they just told us---)

I kept my babies warm. Wrong, they say. If you are warm, your baby is warm. Don't cover him.

My mother fad me with a bottle. Doctors told my mother breast feeding wasn't good for babies--not enough nutrients.
My doctor assured me it was best to breast feed. But on a schedule.
My girls were told to feed their babies whenever the kids wanted to be fed. Now that's a good idea. They walk around with the equivalent of two milk cartons on their chests. The law of supply and demand. They are constantly re-filling.

I am living with a load of guilt today. It seems my children were lucky to survive with me as their mother. I am a horrible example to follow.

So why is DSS trusting me to mentor the sixteen year old mother?

They figure I've raised four kids of my own and maybe I have what it takes to raise some others.
Common sense, i think is what you call it.
Wait. I don't think we're supposed to count on that any more.

Batter Up

I am reminded today of why so many Beyonders are becoming foster parents.

You see, Charlie and I just finished working concessions at the state 13-15 year old Babe Ruth tournament in our small town. We are Lions. Charlie is in charge of getting crews to run the concession stand (which is our main club fundraiser) and I am in charge of keeping the stand stocked. WE are the default crew.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Other people worked the stand too. It’s just that we always worked with them, Pretty much. Mostly.

And some Lions said they couldn’t work because they were too busy. They had jobs. Their kids were playing in the tournament and they wanted to watch them. They couldn’t work because they had lives.

Young people today just don’t understand life. They don’t get it that you have to pay forward. Life is like social security. You pay in now to get back later. ----Okay, so life isn’t like social security. I mean, like I paid into social security for all these years and I won’t be able to retire until I’m 94, but some young punk is faking a back injury so he can get SSI and my money is paying his bills so he can buy a Mustang convertible with leather seats and a GPS. Uh—sorry about that. Life is like an investment. Yeah, that’s it. A long-term investment. And you gotta pay in to get out.

So we pay in, Charlie and I. And we argue.
Last night, I had a number in the “missed calls” message on my cell phone.
“Do you know what 854-2-5-0-0 is?” I yelled back to him from my place at the concessions stand counter,
“Yeah, it is slow, what inning is it?” Charlie answered flipping another burger on the grill.
“No. Not slow. What is that number?”
“Thunder? No, I didn’t hear any. There aren’t any watches out, that I know of.”
Someone in the stands asked us to be quiet. He couldn’t hear the announcer.
“They want us to be quiet,” I told Charlie.
“What about tonight?” he asked.
“Not tonight,” I said. “Quiet.”
“That’s okay, honey,” he said. “You’re real tempting, but I’m too tired for tonight too.”

Batter up.

I Feel Old---Real Old.

I don’t think of myself as old. Usually.
But last night, lying in bed, Charlie and I were pondering our aches and pains. I have a pinched nerve from wrestling with my 280 pound son-in-law. (Not bright, I know, but wisdom doesn’t ALWAYS come with age.) It hurts from my shoulder to my forearm some days.
Charlie played tennis on his lunch break yesterday. In 100 degree heat. Then he stood on a ladder to help me wash the outside of the kitchen windows. After work he pulled weeds, cleaned the leaves from our rain gutter and washed the siding. He was complaining about being stiff last night. ( Well duh…)
See, when I look in the mirror, I see what I believe I will see. Me. But it’s the me I was 15 years ago. I don’t notice the wrinkles and the added gray in my hair. I see the rolls under my chin, but what the heck…it’s just baby fat. And the bags under my eyes are because I stayed up past my 9:30 bed time. Aren’t they?
Coming face-to-face with my age is scary.
I am only 7 years away from traditional retirement at 65. At restaurants, people routinely ask if I want the senior discount or would like to order off the senior menu.
And I have a nine year old. What the heck was I thinking?
Anyway, I found this “real age” test on the Internet and thought other Beyonders might be interested. Turns out, I’m not as old as I thought!
I’m younger. A lot younger. Okay, only two years younger. But in two years, Liz Taylor could go through 5 husbands. (I’ll bet THEY feel old.)

http://www.oprah.com/health/lifestages/realage/health_real_main.jhtml



And science has proven that, on the whole, Beyonders are more satisfied with their lives. That keeps us younger, too. We have GREAT memories.

1)Remember Howdy Doody? Okay, so what was the name of the human partner of the famous dummy?
2)Who was The Lone Ranger’s Indian sidekick? What did the name mean?
3)Who was Rudy Gernreich?
4) What did Beaver’s dad do for a living?
5) How much did a gallon of milk cost in 1960?







1) Buffalo Bob 2) Tonto --One story is that it is Potowatomie for “Wild One.”
3) inventor of the topless swimming suit 4) he was an accountant 5) 49¢


Okay. Enough fun for today. I have to go remind the nine year old to be quieter in the house. The kid is a real loud breather.

Values: Love and Hat

Okay, so I'm old.
People age. Values don't.

The Fourth of July has always been a family day to us. Until about five years ago, it was a big day for our town, too. Then some idiots decided to use the money Holyoke always spent on kids races and a "town feed" on something they call "Dandelion Daze." the Chamber of Commerce thought it would bring some money into the community. Yeah. Money. That's what it comes down to. They have a semi-well attended car show ( mostly the same cars every year, but some of us are old enough we forget and it's like all new. ) There is a cruise-in, which only the car owners enjoy ( and most of those are from out of town) and sidewalk sales ( but most of us "townees"already have sidewalks)

The point is, the town does nothing to celebrate the Fourth of July except the fireworks in the evening. So our family has its own celebration. There are usually 18 or more of us and we have kids games, water balloons, volleyball, tennis and baseball. There is always plenty of good food and we enjoy the privelege of family.

And family is a privilege. That's what the kids we foster get...that not everyone has family.
the park is full of people who do not get that: punk kids, boys in gangsta attire--pants down below their butts ( I guess if they need to go, all they have to do is squat) and girls in skin-tight tops that bare bulging bellies with stretch marks and navel piercings and shorts that bare their butt cheeks on one end and their thong underwear on the other. ( there is a reason they call it UNDERWEAR)

I don't want to deal with that when I am celebrating family. I want to provide a healthy alternative to that kind of lifestyle--and that lifestyle is where many of our foster children come from.

Society is coming around to values again. Much is being made of the WWII generation ( which is before my time, thank God) and the contributions thay made to the world. So why don't people speak up and let these park punks know that THEY ARE NOT AMERICA? Why allow that
culture to slip into our kids lives through its music and fashion (???)

I held an interview in my head the other day, sitting in the park, admiring some hot 200 pound chick in her shorts and green thong underwear. I asked the kid why she wore clothes that showed her cleavage in front and in back. She said it was to attract the boys.

"All boys, or just plumbers?" I asked.

And our foster daughter has issues as well. She is sixteen and has a three month old son. The other day she dressed for church in a sweet skirt set. She pulled the waistband down so that her belly button was visible. I pulled it back up. She has a baby-flab belly and a navel piercing.

"I'm not wearing it like that," she said.
"Yes. You are."
She huffed but left the skirt at her natural waist.
"And another thing, What is that on your knuckles?"
"It's a tatoo," she said. "Well, not really a tatoo. I drew it on with ink. It says love and hate."
"It says love and hat," I corrected.
"I know. The pen stopped working."

So there you are. What kind of values can this generation have when they wear love and hat tatooed on their hands? The answer is " the values we give them."
That's where we Beyonder" parents come in. Values are our specialty.

RECIPES BEST FORGOTTEN

Celery seed. It just occurred to me I don’t have any celery seed.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
My mother-in-law made stews even in summer—beefy concoctions with chunks of potatoes, parsnips and turnips. She peeled carrots and sliced them into the pot along with onion and celery. It was a hot, time-consuming job. them
At lunch (the big meal of the day) she served big plates of the stew with sliced bread, butter and homemade jam. For dessert, there was always a bowl of canned plums and a sugar cookie or two.
I tried to make stew like Mom Harvey did. I used beef cubes and frozen stew veggies—they were already cut up. And I used celery seed instead of celery. My stew was okay, but I don’t imagine any of my kids will brag about it.
The sacrifice was missing.
And the pride in doing something well.
The kids we older parents foster are from a gas-and-go generation. A single-serve microwavable world measured in gigabytes and milliseconds.
Their parents are, too.
That’s where we come in. We remember waiting for the TV to warm up before the picture came on. We remember when, if you wanted mashed potatoes, you had to mash them yourself—after you peeled and boiled them. When you bragged to the neighbors that you mowed your lawn in perfect diagonal lines. We remember when summer was a time for kids to play and get bored and secretly wish for school to start.
I decided to teach my foster children the value of taking pride in hard work. We made homemade cinnamon rolls.
It was fun at first. We sifted flour and heated milk and yeast and butter and sugar. We stirred it together and waited for it to form dough.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have put in that extra half-cup of milk,” one said.
“Aw, that didn’t make any difference. I saw you do it and I dumped a little more flour in to make up for it.” The other child held up his dough encased hands. “But I’ll bet this would go faster if we put the dough in the blender to mix.”
“You’re not mixing,” I told them. “You’re kneading.”
“Needing what?”
“I put in extra salt. So that isn’t the problem.” The sweet faced nine year old grinned.
“No,” said the other child. “And we don’t need any more yeast. I dumped in all three bags.”
“You put in three bags of yeast?” I asked.
“Yeah. It said fast-rising, but I waited a whole minute and nothing happened. So I put it all in.”
I took the bowl and covered it with a clean dry dish towel. “Let’s just let it rest.”
“Already?” said the oldest. “I’m not tired yet.”
“Imagine that,” I said.
After five minutes, the kids were elbow-deep in dough again.
“Didn’t I tell you to let the dough rest,” I asked them.
“It was bored,” said the little red head.
“Dough doesn’t get bored.”
“You said it got tired,” he replied.
“I never said the dough was tired.”
“Well, you said it had to rest.”
“Go out and play.” I told them, covering the bowl again.
“Play what?”
“In the street,” I mumbled. Go play in the street.”
But after a quick nap, I felt better and I called them back in. We flattened the dough out, covered it with sugar and cinnamon and rolled it up again. We sliced it and put it in pans, and we baked it.
It made 144 cinnamon rolls—lead-heavy and chewy as an old tire. We gave cinnamon rolls to the pastor, to the neighbors and to the boys’ Sunday school teachers, none of which spoke to us for a month afterward.
I suppose one should choose his projects (and his battles) with care. I guess we often remember the Good Old Days as being brighter than they were.
At any rate, here is a perfectly acceptable alternative for homemade rolls. Make them in disposable pans and share them with everyone.

Four tins of biscuits ( they often come four to a package)
Margarine
Sugar
Cinnamon
Butterscotch pudding mix
Walnuts, pecans, peanuts—whatever suits you

Melt the margarine in a bowl. Meanwhile, open the biscuit tins and separate the biscuits. Fill a large flat bowl with a mixture of cinnamon and sugar. Make the biscuits into balls and roll them in the margarine, then in the cinnamon-sugar. Put them in a cake pan
( bundt pans work best) starting at the edges and working in. Leave a circle in the center empty. When you have three rows, sprinkle on some of the pudding mix and a few nuts and repeat with another layer. When you have used all the biscuits, pour some of the left-over margarine on the top and sprinkle with remaining sugar mixture. Bake at 350 degrees until the roll tops are brown and the middles are set. ( about thirty minutes)
Place a plate over the pan and invert it. The rolls will pull apart in single servings. THIS IS VIRTUALLY NO FAIL. KIDS WILL LOVE THEM.

HAPPY FATHERS' DAY

Sunday was Fathers' Day. The pastor asked all the fathers to line up across the front of the sanctuary. Then he asked everyone whose father was in front to come stand with him. Charlie (my husband, you know) was surrounded by children--kids and grandkids and fosters. He glowed.
On Mothers' Day, we did the same thing. But they gave out cool gifts--book marks and seedlings in Styrofoam cups and pens. I don't klnow many mothers with the time to read, and the seedlings always depress me by dying on Monday and the pens never do work. But dads get cookies. Chocolate cookies.
After church, we all went out for dinner. There were fifteen of us at the table. We weren't all there, but we had enough for a quorum.
Then, we went to the lake cabin for a few hours. Charlie and I sat on the deck and patted a fussy baby while her teen aged mommy got to be a kid for a while. Our two boys ( adopted a month ago) and the 16 year old girl splashed and screamed and ran through the waves.
Charlie and I were content( yes, thats the exact word: content) to watch and sink back into the chair cushions in the sand-scented air.
On the way home, we stopped for burgers. It was dark when we pulled into the driveway at our house. The boys asked to go downstairs and watch some TV, but the 16 year old wanted to call her father to wish him a happy Fathers' Day. We heard her as we sat in the dark on our deck.
"Is Dad there?" she asked.
"Is he drunk again?"
"Yes?"
It was quiet except for the strange whirring noise made by some little owls nesting in our Catalpa tree. Finally, the 16 year old joined us on the deck.
"We're sorry," we told her.
"It's okay," she said. "He always gets drunk on Fathers Day."
Charlie is a great dad. I think the kids see Jesus in him. He is sometimes quick-tempered and over-reacts, but the kids know he loves them. And he is always there for them.
He doesn't see that, he feels inadequate--run down--worn out. He feels old--like he is shortchanging the boys we just adopted. Like he is too impatient to foster the young mother with the unhappy baby. But kids see that dads can blow up and still be loving. They can grouch and still joke.
Not all kids have great dads. Some don't even have mediocre dads. Some, like our foster kids, have a dad like Charlie only for a while. That's too bad. The world could use more dads--more foster dads--like Charlie.

A BLAST FROM THE PAST

A WORD FROM THE BEYONDER QUEEN

THIS COURTHOUSE IN OUR LITTLE TOWN HAS AGED MUCH MORE GRACEFULLY THAN I. IT GOT ME THINKING.....

OKAY, SO SOMETIMES IT'S UNCOMFORTABLE BEING AN OLDER PARENT. I HAVE TO ADMIT GETTING OLD IS THE PITS. I CAN'T WAVE AT PEOPLE. IT'S DANGEROUS. THE FLAP OF SKIN UNDER MY ARMS IS APT TO FLY UP AND POP ME IN THE FACE. AND IF IT MISSES MY FACE, THERE ARE OTHER PLACES IT CAN HIT THAT ARE SENSITIVE TOO. AND, IF IT DOESN'T HIT ANYWHERE, THE CONSTANT MOTION STILL WEARS ME OUT. MY WORST NIGHTMARE IS BEING NAMED GRAND MARSHALL OF OUR LITTLE TOWN'S FAIR PARADE--HAVING TO SIT ON THE BACK OF A CONVERTIBLE AND WAVE TO THE CROWD. I'D BE BLACK AND BLUE FOR A MONTH.

I'M AFRAID MY YOUNGEST KIDS WILL GET EMBARRASSED WHEN THEIR FRIENDS ASK WHO I AM.
I JUST COLORED MY HAIR TODAY--TO GET OUT THE GRAY. GRAY HAIR MAKES YOU LOOK OLD, I THINK. STILL, NO MERE DYE JOB WILL ERASE THIRTY YEARS FROM MY FACE. MY GRANDDAUGHTER TOLD ME SHE WISHED I WEREN'T OLD.
"BUT YOU'RE NOT AS OLD AS AUNT GRACE," SHE SAID.

YOU SHOULD KNOW---AUNT GRACE IS DEAD.

BUT JUST WHEN I GET TO FEELING SORRY FOR MYSELF, SOMETHING SNAPS ME BACK TO REALITY. TONIGHT, IT WAS THE CAR SHOW AT THE PARK. DANDELION DAZE, THEY CALL IT. AND THERE WAS A DJ PLAYING SIXTIES SONGS.
"CALIFORNIA GIRLS" AND "HANG ON SLOOPY." "LITTLE DEUCE COUPE" AND "HELP ME RHONDA."
SONGS THAT MADE MY HIPS SWING AND MY FEET MOVE. SONGS TO GROOVE TO.

I WAS A TEEN ONCE--WITH ACNE AND BRACES. I WORRIED ABOUT GETTING A DATE TO THE HOMECOMING DANCE AND WHETHER I LOOKED LIKE A DWEEB IN MY NEW MINISKIRT. I SPENT HOURS ASSESSING MY THUNDER THIGHS. I WONDERED ABOUT MARIJUANA AND LSD AND PREMARITAL SEX. I HATED MY PARENTS BECAUSE I WANTED TO GROW UP BUT I WAS AFRAID I COULDN'T MAKE IT WITHOUT THEM. AND I KNEW THAT EVENTUALLY THEY WOULD DIE AND LEAVE ME ALONE.

BUT I'M NOT ALONE. I HAVE A MATE OF 37 YEARS WHO LOVES THE BEACH BOYS JUST AS MUCH AS I DO. I DON'T HAVE ACNE ANY MORE. NOW I USE WRINKLE CREAM. ( BY THE WAY, IF BOOMERS ARE MAKING AS MUCH OF AN IMPACT ON SOCIETY AS THEY SAY WE ARE, WHY DOESN'T SOMEONE INVENT CREAM THAT WILL PUT WRINKLES IN WHILE YOU SLEEP?) I DON'T WORRY ABOUT THE RUBBER BANDS ON MY BRACES POPPING OUT ANY MORE. NOW IT'S MY TEETH THAT POP OUT. I KNOW NOW THAT SPIKED HAIR AND PIERCED NOSES ARE JUST FADS AND DON'T MIRROR THE SOUL ANY MORE THAT MY ORANGE FISHNET STOCKINGS MADE ME A LOVE GODDESS.
I HAVE STUDIED THE EFFECT THAT MARIJUANA HAS ON THE BODY AND MUCH PREFER DARK CHOCOLATE. I NEVER DID LSD. AND PREMARITAL SEX? THAT'S WHERE MANY OF OUR FOSTER KIDS CAME FROM.

I WEATHERED THOSE AND ALL THE YEARS IN BETWEEN THEN AND NOW. I SURVIVED, AND I AM IN PRETTY GOOD SHAPE, IF YOU DON'T COUNT THE BULGES WHERE MY PANTY LINE SQUEEZES MY THIGHS. I KNOW STUFF. STUFF THAT IS VALUABLE TO KIDS AND TO YOUNG PARENTS WHO WATCH THE WAY I HANDLE SMALL EMERGENCIES AND BIG DRAMAS. AND EVERYBODY DIES. SOMEDAY.
BUT FOR NOW, I HAVE A LOT TO LIVE FOR. I AM A LEGITIMATE ANTIQUE. AND AN ODDITY. I HAVE KIDS YOUNGER THAN MY CHILDREN DO.
SO, I THINK--WHILE MY HAIR IS DRYING--I WILL LISTEN TO SOME MORE TUNES AND PLAY A LITTLE DONKEY KONG. REMEMBER? CLICK ON THE WORDS, AND JOIN ME.

DONKEY KONG

REPAIRING MY REMEMBERER

I AM RECOVERING FROM A WEDDING. WE HAD THE WING-DING SATURDAY, AND I'M TIRED. I DON'T REMEMBER BEING THIS TIRED AFTER THE LAST DAUGHTER'S WEDDING AND I KNOW WHY THIS ONE IS AFFECTING ME DIFFERENTLY. IT ISN'T THAT I AM OLDER, THOUGH I AM. IT ISN'T EVEN THAT THIS WAS THE LAST DAUGHTER'S WEDDING. I HAVE TWO SONS AND MORE GRANDDAUGHTERS THAN I CAN RECALL RIGHT NOW. THEY ALL WILL PROBABLY HAVE WEDDINGS.
NO, THE PROBLEM IS THAT I HAD TOO MUCH HELP WITH THIS ONE. TOO MANY UNANSWERED QUESTIONS. TOO MUCH UNCERTAINTY. THAT TIRES ME OUT.
THE SAME IS TRUE OF MY FOSTER PARENTING. OF COURSE, ANYONE WHO DEALS WITH KIDS KNOWS THAT YOU CAN NEVER ANTICIPATE EVERYTHING, AND BEING SPONTANEOUS IS IMPORTANT TO STAY YOUNG. BUT CONTROL IS IMPORTANT TO STAY SANE.
THE GROOM'S SIDE OF THE FAMILY WANTED TO HELP WITH THE RECEPTION AND I HAD NO CONTROL OVER WHEN AND HOW THE FOOD WOULD GET TO THE PARK WHERE THE RECEPTION WAS HELD. THE WEATHER WAS "IFFY" AND I DIDN'T FEEL I COULD MAKE THE DECISION TO MOVE THE PARTY TO THE CHURCH.
I NEED CONTROL!!!!!!
I'VE LEARNED, WITH MY FOSTER KIDS, TO THINK THROUGH THE MAJOR ISSUES OF SITUATIONS BEFORE I FACE THEM. I ANTICIPATE THE UNEXPECTED MIGHT HAPPEN AND PREPARE FOR THE EVENTUALITY. I MAKE LISTS SO I WON'T FORGET THINGS AND I PUT THE LISTS IN PLAIN SIGHT. ( I ONCE PUT SOME RENEWAL PRESCRIPTIONS AWAY IN A CABINET SO I WOULDN'T LOSE THEM AND DIDN'T FIND THEM UNTIL THE LAST PILL WAS GIVEN. ) I KEEP IBUPROFIN IN MY PURSE ALONG WITH TUMS, ETC.
I GUESS WHAT I'M SAYING IS THAT I COMPENSATE FOR DIMINISHED STAMINA AND MEMORY ( AND ARTHRITIS) BY PLANNING AHEAD. I SAW THIS ARTICLE ( AUTHOR UNNAMED) THAT DESCIRBES-IN A NUTSHELL--MY PREDICAMENT AS AN OLDER PARENT. I'LL BET YOU CAN IDENTIFY WITH IT!
I decided to wash my car. As I start toward the garage, I notice that there is mail on the hall table. I decide to go through the mail before I wash the car. I lay my car keys down on the table, put the junk mail in the trash can under the table, and notice that the trash can is full.So I decide to put the bills back on the table and take out the trash first. But then I think, since I'm going to be near the mailbox when I take out the trash anyway, I may as well pay the bills first.
I take out my checkbook that is on the table, and see that there is only one check left. My extra checks are in my desk in the den, so I go to my desk where I find the bottle of soda that I had been drinking.I'm going to look for my checks, but first I need to push the soda aside so that I don't accidentally knock it over.
I see that the soda is getting warm, and I decide I should put it in the refrigerator to keep it cold. As I head toward the kitchen with the soda, a vase of flowers on the counter catches my eye--they need to be watered. I set the soda down on the counter, and I discover my reading glasses that I've been searching for all morning.
I decide I better put them back on my desk, but first I'm going to water the flowers. I set the glasses back down onthe counter, fill a container with water and suddenly I spot the TV remote. Someone left it on the kitchen table.I realize that tonight when we go to watch TV, we will be looking for the remote, but nobody will remember that it's on the kitchen table, so I decide to put it back in the den where it belongs, but first I'll water the flowers. I splash some water on the flowers, but most of it spills on the floor. So, I set the remote back down on the table, get some towels and wipe up the spill.Then I head down the hall trying to remember what I was planning to do. At the end of the day, the car isn't washed, the bills aren't paid, there is a warm bottle of soda sitting on the counter, the flowers aren't watered, there is still only one check in my checkbook, I can't find the remote, I can't find my glasses, and I don't remember what I did with the car keys.Then when I try to figure out why nothing got done today,I'm really baffled because I know I was busy all day long, and I'm really tired. I realize this is a serious problem, and I'll try to get some help for it, but first I'll check my e-mail.

SOUND LIKE YOU?? MAYBE NOT, BUT--REST ASURED--IT IS ME TO A TEE. ANYWAY, I GOT THIS TIDBIT FROM A GREAT SITE FOR OLDER PARENTS--http://www.getorganizednow.com

LOTS OF TIPS ON ORGANIZATION FOR KEEPING UP A HOUSE, REMOVING STAINS, ETC.
I AM GOING TO END FOR TODAY--I NEED TO FIND A LIST I MADE OF THINGS I WAS GOING TO ACCOMPLISH YESTERDAY.

Too Pooped To Parent?

It happened again.
The eight-year-old wanted to go on the roller coaster one more time. I didn't.
I knew, if I did, my insides would slip past my partial bridge and slide right onto my lap.
I knew that my knees would buckle as I crawled out of that snug little coaster car and I would crumple to the rails underneath.
So there he stood--huge brown eyes just beginning to swim in tears.
What else could I do? I crawled onto the ride. 90 seconds later, when I got off, my knees didn't buckle. They'd been bolstered by my large intestine, which had somehow twisted itself around my left leg.
"Did you and Grandma have fun?" the ride operator asked.
Fun. Yes, at 9:00 that morning, I had been having fun. Silver Dollar City, in Branson Missouri, is a great place. Full of steep hills. And heat. And humidity. Five rides after the coaster, I was beginning to fade.
See, kids' bodies come equipped with stamina as standard equipment.
Thirty-year-olds get it as an option--provided they're willing to spend the extra time in the gym it takes.
For fifty-somethings, stamina is a pleasant surprise--capricious in its comings and goings.
I go to the fitness center. And--for my age-- I do all right. I don't even need a fan on me--the flapping of the skin under my arms generates quite a nice breeze.
But being the fifty-seven year old parent of a young child is a challenge.
Getting enough sleep helps. When we get older, that can be hard. Nature beckons at 2:00 am and we trudge to the bathroom, then get a drink on the way back. How crazy is that? But we can train our bodies to sleep. First, we need to remember that the bedroom is a place to sleep, not watch TV or play ( with one exception.) We need to condition our minds to that: Bedroom = sleep. Second, avoid drinking anything two hours or less before retiring. Remember: A toddy at ten brings a tinkle at two. Third, keep your bedroom cool--no more than 68 degrees. Fourth, keep your bedroom dark. And if you absolutely cannot sleep, get up. Watch a boring TV show. Play solitaire--alone. There are more tips on my website http://www.lifeplusone.net
Using mentors is a great way to let your child be active without killing yourself in the process. We get our kids ( foster and adopted) involved in all kinds of activities--school clubs, summer rec, cheer leading, pee-wee wrestling, scouts, almost anything they're interested in. And each activity has adult leaders. Translate: MENTORS. We try to give a little something extra to the group--financial support, providing snacks, offering to mail out schedules--and the leaders take a greater interest in our kids. It's a win-win thing.
Keeping up with your meds, diet and exercise. Do NOT sacrifice taking the time to check your blood sugar or swallow your medications. Don't be tempted to think your body will thrive on the same diet your nine-year-old eats. Hot dogs are not fiber. AND a day without fiber is like a day without --well, you get the idea.
There are more ideas on the web site.
But, I was telling you about my vacation--sort of.
We just got back from Missouri. Branson is the greatest vacation spot in the world for families. It has just about every activity under the sun, for adults and kids, and it costs a lot less than Disneyworld.
There are miniature golf courses and go-carts, amusement parks and hiking. Para-sailing and boating is available at scads of marinas. Then, there are comedy and music shows--most tailored to hold the interest of all age groups.
There is a new attraction: The Titanic Museum. You buy your ticket to the huge ship-shaped building and get a boarding pass with the name of a Titanic passenger. At the end of the tour, you find out whether your passenger lived or died. Cool. huh?
There is shopping and ice cream stands and antique-looking cars to rent to drive the winding streets. There is a fish hatchery to tour ( for free) and the mansion of a famous nineteenth century artist ( Rose O'Neil, the woman who originated the Cupie Doll) to explore.
Branson is probably my favorite place in the world.
So, back to my roller coaster ride.
I climbed off and tried to get to the exit without looking like a doddering old woman having a stroke. I wanted desperately to look cool. It helped that my eight-year-old adopted son is big. He pulled me up the wooden walkway.
As I made my way through the crowd exiting the ride, I saw a lot of young people with forced, blue-lipped grins on green faces. Motion sickness. They were sauntering, best as they could on wobbly legs, vowing to ride again. Bravado, that's what it was. Silly. That's one thing I have found out as an older parent--I don't have to prove anything to anyone. But I want to--desperately. I don't want to shortchange my kids. Sure, I know there are lots of things I can give them that a younger parent couldn't. Yes, I understand that --at the very least--I have given my adopted kids a forever home. But I don't want them to be ashamed of having an older parent.
"Did you and Grandma have a good time?" the ride attendant asked.
"She's not my grandma," my eight-year-old said. "She's my mom."
I felt the hot tears welling as I gave him a squeeze. Then, I grabbed one of those green-faced, grinning kids getting off the coaster after a solo ride and asked,
"Will you go on the ride one more time with my child? I would go with him, but I want to take pictures from the observation deck. "

Meet the Beyonder Queen

I am the Beyonder Queen.

You are my subjects.

Tax notices go out next week.

I am a foster parent--have been for six years. Impressed? Wait, there's more. I am in my fifties. AND we've adopted three of the twenty-five kids who have come through our home. I am now waiting for a collective "WOW."

Along the way, I've discovered a few things about fostering as an older parent--things that make my job a little easier. That's what I want to share in this blog. Resources, tips and bang-your-head-against-the-wall frustrations.

There will be about a week's lag in posts to this blog while I collect my thoughts and wait for my Metimucil to work. AND, if you don't believe that humor has a place in foster care, this isn't the blog for you. If you like, have a peek at my web sites: http://agoodread.bravehost.com/ and http://www.lifeplusone.net/

I have written a list of ten rules to give my children ( adopted and foster) to help them adjust to having an older parent. This is one of the few times my blog will address kids' problems. I want to help the adults. The REAL adults. The people 50 and Beyond. You know who you are.

1) GERITOL IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE SUBSTITUTE FOR PANCAKE SYRUP. I KNOW IT IS UNFAIR, BUT THE FACT IS THAT THE REVERSE WORKS FOR US...THE USE OF A LOT OF PANCAKE SYRUP MAY WORK MUCH LIKE THE GERITOL.

2) WE REMEMBER WHEN THERE WERE NO VIDEO GAMES AND WE BELIEVE YOU WILL SURVIVE US DELETING THE 35,000 FILES THAT YOUR VIRTUAL BATTLE GAME HAS INSTALLED ON OUR COMPUTER.

3) THE FACT THAT WE CAN'T CATCH YOU IS A FALSE SECURITY. WE DON'T HAVE TO CATCH YOU. WE DON'T EVEN HAVE TO RUN AFTER YOU. WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.

4) YOUR ROOMS ARE UPSTAIRS. DON'T MAKE US COME UP THERE. AS A MATTER OF FACT, DON'T MAKE US EVEN BEND OVER. WE CAN'T BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONSEQUENCES.

5) YOU MAY HAVE ONLY ONE SODA A DAY. I DON'T CARE IF YOU THINK IT IS UNFAIR THAT OUR SODAS ARE UNLIMITED. LOOK AT OUR BODIES. WE HAVE ALREADY RUINED THEM. LOOK AT OUR TEETH--THEY COME OUT.

6) YOUR FRIENDS ARE WELCOME AT YOUR HOUSE. AS LONG AS THEY DON'T SCREAM. WE HATE SCREAMING. WE EVEN HATE LOUD BREATHING.

7) WE INCLUDE, WITH THE CLASSICS, RE-RUNS OF GUNSMOKE AND BONANZA. YOU WILL BE REQUIRED TO WATCH THEM. THERE WILL BE A TEST.

YOU DON'T HAVE TO WATCH RE-RUNS OF tHE MONKEES. WE ARE OLD--NOT INSANE.

9) HAMBURGERS AND PIZZA MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY SALAD. GREEN SALAD. WITH LETTUCE.

10) THERE ARE MORE RULES, BUT I DON'T REMEMBER WHAT THEY WERE.