Ozark Country Christmas

Well, we did it.
Charlie and I went to Branson on Thanksgiving.
The trip went fast...we actually left Wednesday night so we wouyldn't have to get up at 3 am on Thursday. We drove to Hays Kansas and stayed overnight. So guess what time we got up on Thursday.
You got it. 3 AM

But we got to Branson and checked into our motel just a bit after noon, their time.
We normally stay at the Shepherd of the Hills Quality Inn. This time, we decided to be adventurous. We picked a motel from Internet listings...off the beaten track, with a facade like a Victorian Painted Lady.
The picture on the Web wasn't detailed. Purposely.
The Queen Anne was, at one time, a charming place. Now, it is run down and a bit shabby. But the proprieter was VERY friendly. He had warm eyes and a wide smile under his turban. His English wasn't good, but it was far better than our Arabic.
Our room wasn't great, but it wasn't terrible. The curtain hung by two hooks, Charlie found them and fixed it. The bed was old, but comfortable.
And that pretty much describes us...old, yet comfortable.

We went out to The Branson Landing Shopping Mall for a couple of hours. The employees had posted a forum of disgruntled online comments...the mall owner had ordered the stored to open Thanksgiving Day. Most refused. The ones which were open were suprisingly cordial. We ate at a fast food Chinese restaurant. Their menu that day was limited. You got to choose between sweet and sour chicken or Asian chicken. And rice. They had lots of rice.
But the performers from the Legends Theater who do the Blues Brothers impersonation were at the fountain area doing a short free show...followed by another group with a tribute to The Eagles.

After leaving the Landing, we went out to Silver Dollar City ( Easily the most magical place in the free world IMHO)
Three million lights outlined the buildings and lanes. There were live concerts and carolers and roasted nuts and hot chocolate. There was a three story Christmas tree that put on a heck of a light show to a Manheim Steamroller number and a Parade of Lights with St. Nick.
And there was the Wilderness Church...a nineteenth century church transported to Silver Dollar City years ago. It has handhewn wooden pews and an open beamed ceiling. The tree there was dressed in holly sprigs and white snowballs. It was so quiet sitting in the soft light.

We shopped the nexy day and caught an evening performance of Pierce Arrow. (GREAT!)

The races in Springfield were COLD and my heavy knit cap kept slipping over my eyes. In order to move it up, I had to take my hands out from under the blanket ( I didn't want to) and remove my thick gloves ( I couldn't--the lining kept coming out and I couldn't get them back on if I did) From what I heard, Danny Lasoski led the whole time.

So...we did it. We went to the Ozark Mountain Christmas. It was beautiful.

UN-CREATING THE MONSTER

Out foster daughter wants to live with someone in her family. For months she has schemed and manipulated to make that happen. And it's about to. Happen, that is. It's about to happen. We're happy for her.
And the Department of Social Services asked that she pack some of the things she doesn't need. They thought she'd be excited.
Her comment? "Yeah, make it hard on me."
Did she expect someone to pack for her? Does she think that if she waits until the last moment, someone will?
Fat Chance.
I have decided that if she isn't packed the day the caseworker appears at my door to take her home, I'll just smile and say..."Oh, well."
The problem is that the caseworker won't. Won't smile or say "oh well."
She'll pack for the kid.
Now, if it was my call, I'd say "If you aren't ready to go, we'll just try to get back here next week...or next month...whenever we can fit it into our schedules."
But DSS won't.
How do I know?
It's the nature of the beast.
A former foster child here, who is gifted, attends an alternative high school ( read: a school to help kids who can't make it in the mainstream)
When she was in school here she had a 3.0 average. But she is being allowed to go to the alternative school so that she doesn't have to work too hard. She also has a child and a job.
BUT THOSE WERE CONSEQUENCES OF HER CHOICES, AND IN A REAL WORLD SHE HAS TO DEAL WITH THEM.
She needs to see that she can't count on public assistance all her life. (Right now, she factors it into her budget--for years ahead.)
Some group paid over a thousand dollars to buy her new furniture ( so she could feel better about herself ) WE USED TO TEACH THAT IF YOU WORKED HARD AND GOT AHEAD IT INCREASED YOUR SELF ESTEEM. NOW SELF ESTEEM SEEMS TO COME FROM WHAT YOU GET FROM THE SYSTEM.
And it occurred to me, as I pondered these things that the system is self-perpetuating. The Bible says " Go and multiply and fill the earth. " That's what the system is doing.
The system ( Departments of Human Services, community mental health centers, and non-profit organizations) is multiplying the heck out of itself.
It is making consequences inconsequential by taking away the sting.
It is rewarding indolence and manipulation with privileges and excess.
BASICALLY, THE ONLY WAY YOU GET REMOVED FROM MANY GOVERNMENT PROGRAMS ( DOLES) IS TO NOT SIGN UP FOR THEM AGAIN.
The system is teaching kids that they can live their lives relying on others, and it's OKAY.
They're victims. We owe them. And Public Assistance is just another lifestyle.
When my husband and I got married, we didn't have a lot of money. In fact, we probably were poor. But it really never occured to us to get on the county dole. We were able-bodied and we could help ourselves. We furnished our first rented house for about a hundred dollars total...with second-hand furniture and appliances we got at an auction ( It was late in the day and the dwindling crowd had stopped buying so we got a "deal." )
Anyway, back to the girl who is moving soon. My husband found boxes for her to use and brought them down from an attic at his work. He cleaned them up and delivered them to the child.
Did she say thanks?
NO, she said "Where am I supposed to put these?"
We both had a suggestion, but we didn't offer it.

FOSTER BASHING

Tune into any prime-time drama long enough and you will see a show about the horrible conditions in foster homes.

Listen to any call-in radio forum long enough and you'll hear the same thing.

Talk to former foster kids and many of them will tell you about all the abuse they suffered at the hands of their foster parents.

YOU KNOW WHAT? YOU'VE GOT ME. I CONFESS.

One of our current foster children is mad at me. Do you know why? I found out she hasn't turned in an English assignment since the first week in October. (Of course, I would have known this sooner, but the teacher hasn't updated her parent bridge in all that time either)

And her math teacher emailed me to let me know she's 8 assignments in arrears for her class...she's set up dates to get extra help ( as I asked her to ) but showed up only twice.

SO WE TOOK AWAY HER WEEK-DAY PRIVILEGES. THAT'S RIGHT...NO "MY SPACE" OR TV MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY, UNTIL SHE GETS THE "F'S" OFF HER GRADE CARD.

The nerve!

AND WE WON'T LET HER SPEND AN HOUR TALKING ON THE PHONE ( EVEN TO HER MOM) IF HER HOMEWORK ISN'T DONE.

SO, she's sulking and freezing us with her eyes. I wouldn't care, except the last time she got mad at us, she made allegations against us.

Her family thinks foster care is terrible, too. But when the girl and her sister were first put into foster care, no one in their extended family would take them. When we took the girls to their father's funeral, the family came up to us telling us how different the girls looked and acted now. What a great job we'd done parenting them.

Now, we're horrible, hateful people. I expected that. The girls have been talking to them. And the girls trash anyone who doesn't do what they want them to.

IT'S A FACT. FOSTER PARENTS LEARN TO EXPECT KIDS TO BACKSTAB THEM IF THEY GET A CHANCE. WE don't expect thanks and kudos. We're part of the system that interferred with their lives.

One of our foster kids kicked in our back door.

Several have stolen money.

One of our bedroom screens was ripped by a foster child who wanted to smoke in his bedroom.

I've been kicked, hit, pushed and called names. My husband went through the embarrassment of having a law officer call in a check on him in a crowded restaurant because a 7 year old froze and refused to tell them he was a foster child ( he was Hispanic and so young...he obviously didn't belong with us.)

Kids have screamed at us because we asked them to vacuum...make their beds or do their laundry.

Insulted our cooking and our home ( because theirs was so much better)

And you know what? We accept this. We know it's only because they are hurting, and because they've had no one to teach them the things we're trying to teach them now.

We can even accept the allegations. From the kids.

It's the rest of the world that bugs us.

When allegations are made, foster parents are assumed guilty until proven innocent. They have no right to face their accusers, or even to know who their accusers are.

Foster parents put themselves at risk of physical and emotional harm from strangers...

see their possessions and their home mistreated and/or destroyed by kids who don't know how to take care of them or who don't care.

AND THEY DO IT FOR THE MONEY, RIGHT? THE WELFARE DOLE?

The average payment for the care of a foster child is about $600 a month for a teenager, less for a younger child. You do the math. What do you think we pay out in extra food, electricity, gas, school fees, clothing ( there are some funds for this...I think in our county it's a one time per child check for $80. We've never used it.) allowances, hair appointments, and other expenses?

AND THE REST OF THE $600, IF WE WANT TO, WE CAN COUNT AS WAGES FOR OUR 24/7 JOB.

But according to prime time TV, we're animals. We lock our refrigerators and we won't let the kids go for "walks" without us. OR we don't discipline them and let them act out in public. ( We aren't allowed to use any discipline that causes discomfort to the foster children...withhold meals, make them stand in a corner for long periods of time, spank them, or even send them to bed early as a punishment) I pulled a teen into a hotel room because she was standing in the hall screaming and disturbing others. Three weeks later, when she got angry about a boundary we'd given her, she used that incident to make an allegation. So what would you do?

Prime time blames foster parents...not the biological parents who put these kids at risk in the first place...when the kids turn into killers or sex offenders. But they assume wrongly that the kids placed into our homes are normal. THERE ARE NO NORMAL KIDS IN FOSTER CARE.

That's because they all have been traumatized...by the conditions that caused their removal in the first place and by the removal itself. Most foster kids lie, many steal, some are cruel to our family pets, some hurt other kids in the home, most have little idea of normal family life and responsibilities.

BUT IT'S OUR JOB TO LOVE THEM. TO TEACH THEM. TO KEEP THEM SAFE. AND MOST OF US ARE DOING THAT JOB WELL.

I'm through venting now, and I feel better. I remember why I'm in foster care. I love the kids.

And I get that our job is thankless, hard, gut wrenching and tiring.

I just wish the people in prime-time did.

FREAKED

I'm excited. Kind of. Well, maybe excited is not the word. Maybe more...anticipating.

No, not that either. Not anticipating. It's more...freaked. That's the word. Freaked.

This year, my husband asked me if I wanted to see the Ozark Country Christmas. I did.

He said it was the week after Thanksgiving and we'd drive to Branson, MO. for the event, then swing back through Springfield to go to the races at the Springfield Speedway ( the real reason for the invitation.) Danny Lasoski will be there.

For anyone who doesn't know Danny Lasoski, he's a very successful and famous sprint car racer.

But I don't care what the reason is. And I like races too.

And Branson is my favorite place on earth. It's a family friendly, fantasy world. We've been going there for summer vacations for 16 years, but have never seen their Christmas lights or shows. This is our year!

But then Charlie found out we'd have to leave on Thanksgiving day, not the week after.

I'VE NEVER BEEN AWAY FROM MY FAMILY ON A HOLIDAY.

THAT'S WHY I'M FREAKED.

All these years I've thought we hosted dinners at holidays for the kids. Now I know they're for me. I love my family. I love every screaming kid, every posturing teen, every son-in-law glued to the TV watching the game. I love my girls, trying to outdo one another with their holiday recipes. ( One year our oldest daughter got our elderly aunt drunk on brandied sweet potatoes...the alcohol doesn't burn off if they don't cook long enough.) I LOVE MY GANG.

This year, I'll be in Branson for Thanksgiving. The kids said "Go. It's only Thanksgiving, It would be different of it was Christmas or Easter." So on the Sunday before Thanksgiving, we'll have our family dinner. On Thanksgiving, we'll hit the road at 3 am for the twelve-plus hour drive.

And we'll go shopping at Branson Landing, a really world-class outdoor mall. We'll see the live nativity and listen to Southern gospel and stroll hand-in-hand through the million lights at Silver Dollar City.

The thing is, I've been thinking more about people who don't have families. People who don't freak at the thought of a holiday away. People who would give their right arms to have screaming babies and peevish teens and snoozing grandpas around them...to have someone who forgets to bake the yams long enough and someone who always overcooks the turkey.

And I guess you don't have to celebrate family on any special day. When you're blessed with a bunch like mine, it's always Thanksgiving.

LOW LIFE SELFISH PIG

I'm Ticked!

I just found out that I'm a low-life, selfish pig.
A loser par excellence.
I don't like me.

I was monitoring a foster child's conversation with her parent. Not listening, really, just monitoring tone as I watched TV. It wasn't until I heard my name mentioned that I snapped to attention.

Yeah, Caryl bought me a cheap shirt. It will probably last a week.......

I don't know. I need some more. I don't have anything to go with the new jeans.......

Probably not. It's like pulling teeth to get her to buy anything for me.....

Okay. It wasn't a $50 shirt. It was a J.C. Penney shirt. On sale. But the kid didn't even need it. I just bought it to be sweet. But system kids ( read: foster care) get the idea that the world owes them.

But don't foster parents get money to take care of the kids?
Yes. We do. We get about $600 a month for a teenager. (That's it. If you consider it wages, we donate the extra food and electricity and clothing and allowance and school fees and still make under 40 cents an hour ....if you consider it expense money, we donate our time 24/7.) And there is a one time (That's one time, not one time per season) allowance of $80 to pay for clothing. DO YOU KNOW WHAT A PAIR OF JEANS COSTS THESE DAYS?

A conversation occured at our home last week that might interest you.

ME: Please turn off the stair light. You left it on again.
CHILD: It wasn't me.
ME: No one else is home.
CHILD: Well, maybe I left it on...but we need it so we don't fall over anything.
ME: You mean, like your tennis shoes? They've been there for two days.
CHILD: Well, I couldn't wear them with my GAP jeans. The legs are too short and they won't touch.
ME: Touch what?
CHILD ( INCREDULOUS): The ground. Otherwise they look like high water.
ME: So, what did you wear for shoes?
CHILD: My Journey shoes. The ones I bought last week. I took the money out of my savings.
ME: I told you you couldn't have those shoes. They were too expensive.
CHILD: But that's the kind of shoes I like. The kind you get me are way lame.
ME: You mean you like the kind of shoes you wore when you were at home.
CHILD: No, we couldn't afford them then. But now I'm in foster care and you can afford them.
ME: You mean, like I can afford the higher electric bill when you leave on the lights?
CHILD: It wasn't me.

Get the picture?
The system ( read: me) owes them something because they're in foster care. And some of the parents urge the kids to get all they can while they're in the system so that they'll have a lot of stuff when they come home. We've even had kids ask for things and then give them to parents or siblings who aren't in foster care. THAT'S NOT EVERY KID.

But it is rare to get a child who has been in the system any lenght of time and has not developed the syndrome.

GRATITUDE. THAT'S WHAT I GUESS I EXPECT.

I don't want anyone to fall down prostrate before me.

I don't want to be canonized.

I just think it would be nice if we could teach kids that, even if the world gives you some hard knocks ( most of us have had them) IT DOESN"T OWE YOU ANYTHING.

BUT what do I know? I'm a low-life, selfish pig.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T this is what it means to me

I love Aretha Franklin. Well, not exactly. I don't know Aretha, but I love her voice. And that's a great song. I was reminded of it at a teachers' meeting at my children's high school the other day. I was talking to them about the needs of foster children, but the pre-meeting talk had taken another tack.



"I don't know," said one young male teacher. "I just can't get my kids to pay attention in class. They're always goofing off and talking over me. "

Yeah," said another. Makes me think about that movie..."

"Blackboard Jungle?" I asked.

Blank stares. Then the young woman who had spoken said, "No. 'A Walk to Remember.' Because when they act that way, I wish I was with my boyfriend on a walk, instead of at school in class."

"Yeah," said the first teacher. "I wish I was out on my Wave Jumper or something."



I agree with them. I know their classes, and they might as well be at the movies, or on a Wave Jumper. They aren't doing much teaching. AND IT ISN'T ALL THE FAULT OF THE KIDS.

These younger teachers ( and some of the older ones) encourage the students to call them by their first names...or, even worse, by their nicknames.



"Hi, 'G', " one says to his English teacher as he meets him in the hall.

The teacher is Mr. Gregory. He is in his late fifties or early sixties. I imagine it might be flattering when a kid likes you enough to call you by your nickname. It means you're his "bud," his amigo. THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT IT MEANS.

So, can you blame the kid when...two hours later...he is in class and he doesn't understand the relationship with the teacher has suddenly morphed?

OKAY. IN THE DARK AGES ( THE SIXTIES) WHEN I WAS IN SCHOOL, WE CALLED OUR TEACHERS "MR. _______ " AND "MRS. _____." For the most part, we didn't talk over them and we certainly didn't give them sarcastic answers in class. If we didn't want to listen, we did the honorable thing and slept. ( If you could sleep with your eyes open.)



And our culture is teaching children that there are no boundaries between what is acceptable public behavior and what is best said and done in private.



Our foster daughters frequently ask my husband Charlie if their blouses make their "boobs" look too big. Now, I don't believe that parts of the body are "dirty." But I do believe that we should reserve some things for the privacy ...and the security...of our best friends. We have tried to impress upon the girls that: 1) we don't approve of the indiscriminate use of the word and

2) we believe that you should only ask that of someone you are SURE is comfortable answering that intimate a question. We ask them to rephrase the question using the proper name for the body part.

"Does this shirt make my breasts look too big?"

AND YOU KNOW WHAT? USING THE ANATOMICALLY CORRECT NAME EMBARRASSES THEM.



We understand that this is the generation ( or the kids of the generation) that gave us Brittney Spears. They are accustomed to dress and language that would take Hugh Heffner aback.

SO we're old fashioned. Prudish. Well, maybe, but what do you think the girls would have said if my husband asked them if his pants made his penis look too big? Of course, we wouldn't say anything like that, especially to foster children, BUT WHAT IF?



I guess it all comes down to this: The kids are what we teach them to be. A lot of schools are going back to uniforms. Not only does it take away the competitive nature of fashion, but it puts kids in a frame of mind to learn. It signals that this time is different from time on the court or at the mall. I THINK I LIKE THE IDEA.

And we can require the students to respect one another and the teacher. To differentiate between the two.

And while we're at it, we can teach the teachers. ACT mature. DRESS mature. Cleavage is for the club, not the classroom. Sweatshirts belong at the gym or in front of TV, not in front of thirty students. YOU'RE THE ADULT. YOU KNOW MORE THAN THEY DO. IMPRESS THAT ON THEM. DRESS THE PART. ACT THE PART. DON'T ALLOW THE KIDS TO THINK OF YOU AS THEIR PEER.



Anyway, back to the meeting. I opened my big mouth and opined about all the above to those teachers at that meeting. They were polite. After all, I am a Beyonder and older than most of them ( But younger than several...ha ha.) They humored me.

BUT I STILL THINK I'M RIGHT. WE CAN'T DEMAND RESPECT FROM KIDS UNLESS WE SHOW THEM WE'RE WORTHY OF IT.



We need to teach some r-e-s-p-e-c-t to a generation which believes "modest" is a dirty word and "boobs" is a cute euphemism.

HALLOWEEN HOWLING

SO, last night was Halloween. If you have never experienced a small town Halloween, you've led a sheltered life. Creativity runs amuk in small towns at Halloween, So, for that matter does the police force.

As a lady Lions Club member, I've judged several children's costume parties. Let me add that these are children's parties only in the sense that the Westminster Dog Show is for the dogs.

Parents at the annual Halloween costume party begin working on their progeny's dress in July.

Last night, we had a four year old dressed as a monk. Now, I know that the child probably wanted to be a monk. He probably has monk trading cards, a monk bedspread, a monk action figure...he begged his mother to buy him that costume. One poor child had toilet paper rolls painted yellow and glued to his yellow hood. He was macaroni and cheese. There were some children in typical costumes...puppies and Spidermen and Sleeping Beauties. But they didn't win any prizes.

No, the kids in the monks' robes and the chicken suits won the prizes. $5. That's what they won. And the moms won bragging rights. Next year, their kid will be the kid to beat. ( or beat up.)

One year, a sweet-faced three-year-old stood embarrassed while her mother yelled at me. Mom had made her kids' costumes. She'd spent big bucks and countless hours crafting them. They were a set. But they were both pre-schoolers. Mom wanted us to divide up that group so that each of her kids would win first prize.

Anyway, this is an excerpt from one of my stories about the Lions Club planning their annual Halloween costume party.

Les Mooney had suggested that the women might be more suitable than men to judge the annual Halloween costume contest. The other men agreed. It was the primary reason many of them voted to admit women into the Lion’s Club. But it was like tossing the lions to Daniel.
Mary Ann and Susie Smith, wife of the club treasurer, met at the club at 5:30 pm with a bag of fifty-cent pieces and a lot of courage. The first kids arrived about fifteen minutes later, dragged in by their mothers.
There were some clever costumes. One child—Susie thought it was a girl—came in an outfit held on by wide suspenders. It was a horse body with floppy little legs in chaps attached. The kid’s legs fit into the horse’s bottom half. It looked like the little girl was riding the pony. Cute as all get out, it was.
Another child was covered head-to-toe in green taffeta. He was supposed to be lettuce, he said. A Slinky, tubed in brown felt, wriggled out of one side like a worm. The kid kept falling down, tripping over his wilted outer leaves.
Then, there was an assortment of store-bought costumes. Spidermen and princesses and fairies and three Hulks. The kids stood real still against the outer wall. As if they didn’t want to be there. As if they knew what would happen.
Mary Ann announced the pre-school category. Immediately, thirty women with babies in their arms charged the judges’ table. A lot of the little ones screamed—furious with whoever put them into outfits where they couldn’t move their arms. The mothers ignored their children’s cries and paraded them before Mary Ann and Susie.
The Lady Lions put their heads together, then chose three tykes: one sleeping darling dressed like a bottle of salad dressing, a spotted cow with pink udders and a baby dressed like a banana in a white snowsuit and yellow fleece peels. At first, there was shocked silence. Then one of the moms broke into language Mary Ann had heard switching past the premium channels with her Dish remote. The woman shoved her baby at Mary Ann and Susie. Her child was dressed to match her brother, the woman said. A pair of dice. She herself was evidently dressed for the holiday in a pair of shorts and a halter top. Like it was summer. Like it was ninety-eight outside instead of thirty degrees. Anyway, the mom told the women that the baby’s brother was in kindergarten. Otherwise, standing next to one another, it was obvious they would have won. It was those stupid age classes that ruined everything.
Mary Anne nodded and shrugged. The men had told her this was the way it was done, she told the mothers. But what did men know? Next year—next year, they would come up with different categories. The woman was finally persuaded to sit down..
Susie called for the kindergarteners. Mom dragged the other die up. Then another woman pushed through with two little guys in tow. Her boys wore matching white plastic raincoats painted to look like teeth. Baby teeth, and—judging from the smell—one was decayed. There were thirty-seven kindergarteners. The Lady Lions again conferred and chose the teeth, a fire hydrant and a policeman. The tooth-mother raged at them. One of her kids should have first and one second, she said. It was only fair. There were two kids. Why did they have to share one prize? Mary Ann dug two quarters out of her own purse and gave them to the decayed tooth.
Susie called for first graders. There weren’t as many of them, and the judges felt a little easier. That was before two kids came up dressed in identical costumes. They were mummies—their costumes authentically aged and shredded. Mary Ann told Susie she voted for the kid on the right. At that point, a shrieking mother bounded out of her seat and demanded to know how the judges could pick the other child when the boys were dressed alike. Her kid started shaking when his mother towered over him like that, and he turned to his friend and gave him a horrific punch in the nose.
The mom of the kid on the left was still screeching when the mummy on the right cried for his parent. She arrived with the speed and ferocity of a she bear protecting her cub. It took the Lady Lions about three minutes to get the mothers separated and settled down. When they did, the judges again pointed out the right mummy, citing the little stream of red blood running from his nose as the deciding factor—it added realism, they said.

BACK AGAIN

THE "BEYONDER QUEEN"

I was AWOL for a year. Herding rugrats. That's time-consuming and it's dangerous to be on the computer while the little ones are running amuk.

But I'm back, and it's been an eventful year. This summer, we took our whole family ( kids and grandkids) to Branson. Mo. We've been there 16 times...it's my favorite place. There were 30 of us. The theaters and restaurants loved to see us come ...AND GO. The photo at right is a SMALL part of our group at the Branson Belle Waterfront

ALSO, this year...after being in foster care since 2000, we had our first false allegation placed against us. It is a devastating ( but survivable) experience.

You see, I know that child abuse does happen in foster homes. BUT it is an abberation. Otherwise, it wouldn't make the news. The reason that kids are placed in foster care is that they need a TEMPORARY safe place to live. In most cases, foster care is a safer place than their own homes, OTHERWISE, THE KIDS WOULD NOT BE PLACED.

And, we have two visits a month from DSS. We are required to have 20 hours of continuing education every year.

DID YOU KNOW that the first year a foster home is in existence, chances for false allegations are about 1 in 8? By the time you've been fostering 5 years, your chances are 50/50.

It is not a question of IF you'll have false charges made against you, but WHEN.

And the state and county governments are getting so gun-shy with all the liability. So, out of all the false allegations that are placed, 2/3 are classified " unsubstantiated." Not "unfounded," but just "not proven."

We had two counties investigating us ( we live in one county but are certified by the other) and they both considered the claims false. Unfounded. Without merit. But the state changed the report to read "unsubstantiated." We were lucky enough to have caseworker supervisors who wanted to get in the last word. on our recore, it does say "unsubstantiated," but then the county added...WE feel the charges were unfounded. That made us feel better, but WE STILL ARE REQUIRED TO ATTEND A DE-ESCALATION CLASS.

Oh well, after it's over, we'll go back to Branson.

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. "