The Precious Handmade Gift of Life....

I watched today as my six year old daughter began to open her gift. At first she seemed quite passive about the task. After all, it was the end of Christmas Eve and Katie-Grace had already opened her fair share of toys and presents from her many admirers. But as her Grandmother explained whom had sent her the gift, Katce began to tear open the first of several packages more fervently, her tiny hands ripping the paper as if it was uncovering a long held secret she needed to know.
The first gift held hushed fascination as my daughter unwrapped it. The room was quiet as her Grandmother proudly stated, "and she made it just for you...." It was a pastel colored tray that bore her name and said "I Love You" hand painted richly with a childlike hand. She carefully reached into the box and pulled out her next treasure and unwrapped it. The gleam in Katce's eyes grew brighter as she gingerly fingered her hand painted teapot. She touched the tiny spout and smoothed the lid as she carefully placed it on its perch high atop the hollow vase. Her hand carefully picked up the next piece and she shewed away the other children and guarded the small sugar bowl with its colorful glossy surface. She held it close for a moment and observed just the right spot to place it softly on the tray in it's rightful place next to the teapot.
I began to hold back tears as she continued in her own little world, taking out each tiny cup and saucer from their wrappings and never looked up to see what we all thought of her latest Christmas conquest. She never noticed that she had other gifts to open, she only stared and touched and caressed her miniature tea set carefully "pouring out" in a make believe tea party that existed in her vivid imagination. No one even noticed the way she touched each small piece time and time again and whispered the words"I Love You" as she read them over and over again. But I did. I noticed.
 You see, I noticed because I am her Momma and I am trained to know my little girl and the makings of her little heart. I am preprogrammed to know that this handmade tea set meant much more to her than a simple playtime romp on a fun filled afternoon. This tea set represented a part of Katce that she is too young to understand, and too immature to comprehend. But I understand it because I am her Momma.
I say it to Katce a million times a day, "I Love you"...I write it to her. I whisper it to her. I tickle it to her. I have even sung it to her. She expects it from me because I am her Momma. And yet, I did not give her this gift. I would have. I could have. I paint. I am talented. But I did not do it, it was not me. This I love you was much more important than any "I Love Yous" that I have ever uttered.
Somewhere, another young woman who loves Katie-Grace perhaps more than I, painted this gift. She tenderly picked out the tray. She carefully painted Katce's name. She fervently painted, "I Love You". She picked out the colors. She painted and glazed and fired them and waited for each piece to get done. She gingerly wrapped them in more love than she'll ever know.
And as I watched my daughter finger the words, "I Love You", I realized that in her little hearts of hearts, her birth mother had validated what I had always promised her...that she loved her. I softly held back a gasp as I held my breath and promised to keep her precious treasure safe, I wanted to stop all the noise and hold her close and explain the importance of this momentous occasion. I wanted to shout to the world that my little girl will forever understand that her adoption is okay, that she fits, that she feels complete. But I couldn't and I didn't. I just picked up that tray and promised to take care of Katce's precious treasure...the words, "I Love You"...painted from a beautiful, loving birth mother to a beautiful, loving daughter she gave to me....

Sewing a Memory

Today I will go to work as usual. I will sew some things for customers, alter a few clothes, and maybe do some cleaning for my bosses. But after that I will begin to make some memories. It has taken me close to two long years to finally be able to part with some of my late son Jeff's things. Some things I have given away to whomever God has lead. Some things I have given up based on the needs of the other person. But mostly I have sniffed his things, refolded them, and put them back in his treasure box that once held so many memories and dreams for the future. It will be hard today. I know it will and there is a huge piece of me that is dreading what I am about to do...but it is time. It is time to make some new memories out of the old ones.
I have decided to take my son's t-shirts, the ones that he collected over the years for various events that he loved to participate in, and cut them up and make a pillow for Christmas for each one of my children. I am choosing to call them "Jeffy Pillows".
Today, I will relive the time he crossed the finish line at state in track and brought his teammates to victory. How they were way behind in the relay and he peeled across that track as if his feet were on fire. How I kept screaming, "RUN! Baby! RUN!". I will see the crowd come to it's feet for my son and yell and chant for him. I will relive every moment on the track that day and many others.
Today, I will relive watching him play in endless basketball tournaments. The heat was always unbearable, but he loved the game. The sweat was unbearable, but he loved the game. Sometimes the other player's attitudes were unbearable, but he loved the game. And because of him...I grew to love the game too.
Today I will relive the young lady who insisted on buying him some brand names shirts for Christmas and how excited he was to have them. Even though we had bought him brand name shirts, the look on his face when he was able to say, "Mom, she got these for me!" I saw in his eyes the love he had for her and realized that I had lost my little boy forever, he was now going to be a man.
In my mind, I will see his face over and over again and I will weep.  I will weep for a son whom nobody would adopt and we never even hesitated because we wanted him to have a better life than foster care. I will weep for a son who gave us so many beautiful memories that the thought of not making anymore will surely pain me until the day I die. I will weep for a son who left the most beautiful memories with me the last week of his life. I will weep for a son who could have had the world at his feet, but chose instead to have heaven at his feet. But mostly I will weep because after today I will not be able to open that treasure box and selfishly wrap those t-shirts around my shoulders, sniff them, and bury my tears in them. After today, they will be his siblings. They will be able to hold them and love them and in essence hold and love him. Because, it is time.

It is time to put this part of my life away and go on. It is time to make new memories and wipe away the hurt of finding my son shot by his own hand. It is time to open his treasure box not to "find" him again, but to remember the child that he was and the good man he grew into despite all the bad. And finally, it is time that I let go of him. I loved Jeff so much. I still do. But today while he is enjoying heaven, I have eight other children, spouses, and grandchildren whom need me to make these pillows into new memories. And so today, that;s what I will do...

My first thoughts of Thanksgiving....

As we celebrated another Thanksgiving season, it occurred to me the number of people who were writing about all that they were thankful for. I read posts on facebook, watched the television, and even heard people in the village telling of how they were thankful for this and that. While I realize that the Thanksgiving season provokes such thoughts in all of us, I also found that I could not put one finger on just one thing to be thankful for. because you see, I am thankful every single day, for every single thing that God has placed in my life. Maybe it is because I have nursed a husband and my mother to their deaths. Maybe it is because I have nine children. Maybe it is because seven of the are special needs. maybe it is because I have lost eight children. Maybe it is because my eldest son killed himself. Or maybe, just maybe, it is because God has allowed me to live and love in such a way, that all of those things put together have made me so grateful for this life that I cannot be anything else but thankful. I do not know the reason for sure.
 But I can tell you that everyday when I rise, I am thankful. I am thankful. At this moment I am thankful for the small, "Pitter patter" of feet that are running around my house. My two grandteins and their Momma have had to move back home. It is hard, it is unfortunate. Yet they are here. They call me "Gammie" and they call Tim "Poppy" They yell, they fight, they scream, they really don't sleep, and worst of all they make my tidy "OCD" home look like something on a really bad cheerios commercial. But they are here and they are mine. A year and a half ago, when my daughter,7 months pregnant, gave birth to them via an emergency c-section, we were not sure they would make it. It was horrible. It was scary. But mostly it was like living in a moment that wouldn't go away as they struggled for life those first few days. But they did live. They are here. They are in my home. I am changing "poopy" diapers. I am wearing "food" soled socks. I am being spit at and hit at. But I am also getting wild hugs and wet kisses, and playing "git choo" (get you), and tucking in , and singing the most amazing lullabies any Grammie can imagine.
I am thankful everyday that my children live. That they have survived their parents' horrific lives and that they breath, smile, run, and play and can even function. I am thankful everyday that I get to pray over them at night and wake them up every morning. I am thankful when they screw up and I am thankful when they cross a finishline. Many children do not have these chances in our world. many paople are too selfish, or simply cannot fathom adopting a child with special needs. We never even considered the consequences, it was our "Calling" it is what we do. I am the mother who stands in the way of anyone, anyone ever trying to step on my child's toes or my child's self esteem. It is not your job to change my child, it is mine. I am the Momma who is constantly wearing used clothes so that my children can keep up with the "Jones'", I do not regret it, I am thankful for people who give to goodwill so that I don't look like gartbage. I am thankful everyday that when I drop my children off at school, they are at a safe place with people who love them as their own. We have been blessed with a staff at our school that will call me at the drop of a hat if my children seem "off" or "something is up". 
I come home each day to a warm home, with decent things in it, and food in the cupboard. I clean it with love because I know many people who do not have a nice home, much less own one. I am thankful everyday for my job, for bosses who allow me to come and go as I please to take care of the needs of my large family. My job is my solace some days and without it I would certainly lose my sanity. For people who love me enough to allow me to parent in a way I need to, I am thankful.
I am thankful everyday of my life for a husband who comes home everyday to me. Who is handsome, kind, and would give you the shirt off his back and has many times. I am thankful that he has a good job, and people who care about him also. I am thankful that out marriage has only deepened these past two years of turmoil, that we have clung to each other, and protected our children from this awful "death". I am thankful that when Tim comes home everyday, my heart skips a beat, and it is I who gets to hug and kiss him and no one else.
But mostly, mostly, everyday, I am thankful for the chance that God has given me to live this life. I am thankful I was  able to survive my rotten childhood, and put together some moral fiber and live a life most people only dream about. I do not have money. I do not have "brand new". I do not live stress free. But I do live this life in such a way that I always am thankful, that there are always "silver linings" , and I can always, always, bow to a God who took a frightened little girl who loved to play dollhouse....and molded her into a woman who still loves to play dollhouse only now those dolls and those moments, hug me back!

Sewing a Life of Thankfulness

Thanksgiving. I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be truly thankful. Many people have posted their thankful thoughts each day on facebook. I 've read articles in the magazines and newspapers about thankful people. I have watched television news reports on all sort of miraculous thanksgiving miracles. But I could never write one thing down about it. For me, there is no way I could ever pick one issue, person, or place that I am thankful for. Oh, but i am thankful, I'm thankful every day.
When I get out of bed each morning I am thankful everyday that I get to wake up my children with a hug and kiss and get them out of bed. Seven of my nine children are special needs children. Their biological parents couldn't care for them properly so God has blessed us with them. I'm thankful; that God blessed me out of everyone in the world with the opportunity to raise them. I am thankful that Joshua is going to college, has moved out on his own, and has a decent job. I miss him terribly, but he calls me and tells me about his life and still comes home occasionally just to lay on our couch and cuddle with his siblings. I am thankful for Arden Dragos, our little guy from Russia, the one who was never supposed to walk or talk. Although we we fight because "he is eighteen and I can't tell him what to do", he still in the end realizes that we adore him and will always be there for him. I am thankful everyday for James. The son who provided many dare devil trips to the hospital. Quite frankly, I am amazed he is alive and not maimed. I am so thankful for the way he has grown into a man and became who he is and not some "jock wanna be". He has chosen his own path and not those of his peers. I am thankful every for Timara. She has become all I ever dreamed and more. She lights up a room with her knowledge and personality. She will succeed in this world and change it because, she will never ever let anyone get the best of her. She has over come epilepsy and deals with her illness in an intelligent manner. Everyday I am thankful for my Katie-Grace. I am thankful that she is growing and thriving despite having a renal kidney deformity. I am thankful for cuddling, for her "dancing debuts" , and for her fussy ways. But mostly I am thankful that God let her live through meningitis so that Tim and I could raise this last cherub together. And finally, through many tears and much guilt, I am thankful for my son Jeffrey who committed suicide almost two years ago. I am thankful for the opportunity to know him, to hold him, to watch him reach huge milestones, and to be the one he came home to his final week of life. Everyday, I fight back tears and wish things were different for him, different for us, but if it can't be different, if he cannot be here, then I will be thankful that he was and that he loved us the best he could.
I am thankful for their spouses, two Godly men brought into our family for the soul purpose of fathering my beautiful grandchildren (at least that's what I tell them). They are two of the best men I know. They love their wives (my daughters Tierney and Lacey) and they take loving care of their children. They are men of honor and integrity and I am blessed everyday to have them.
Then there are my three grown daughters. I am so thankful for them everyday and what they bring into my life (besides grandchildren). Tierney calls me nearly everyday with some funny tale form her life. her tenacity and drive as a wife and a mother light up my day and validate who I am as a wife and mother myself. She makes me feel good about bring me. Lacey, the full time teacher and homemaker and momma, calls as often as she can. her life is filled to the brim about the children of New Orleans, their life, wants, and experiences. She brings nuances of changing the world, and living for the future. I am so proud of her calls and how she just loves me because I adore her and her little family. Kayla. My fondest hope and dream. My firstborn. How can I not be thankful foe her everyday. Struggling to raise to babies on her own. Coming home to us and allowing us to help parent her silly children. Her hugs and late night chats remind me of the great times my Momma and I used to have drinking hot tea.
And grandchildren, How can I even begin to be thankful without writing a whole paragraph on two of these little lovelies who have moved into my house for a while to keep me company. I have no free time. I have spilled milk everywhere.My "OCD" home wreaks of poopy diapers and old food stuck under the couch. The living and dining rooms both look like a bad cheerio commercial that will only get worse, but for them I am thankful. I am thankful that we are called "Mamma and Poppy". I am thankful that I get to rock an eighteen month old again at three in the morning. I am thankful that the "pitter patter" of little feet are running through our house again. But mostly I am thankful that my single daughter had the security to know if she came home with her children, that we would open our door and let her live here with our arms and hearts open. And the two grandchildren whom I visit as often as I can. I speak to them on the phone and hold them close to my heart through pictures, stories, and visits. They all have changed my life for the better and for them I am thankful everyday.
 How can I not be thankful for my husband? A man put solely on this earth to be my husband and the father of our children and "poppy" to these grand babies. When he walks into a room after twenty-two years, my heart still skips a beat. he stimulates me intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. he challenges what I think and who I am. He comes home everyday to me and our family and works his tail off to give these people who live here everything he has.Plus he serves his community in many, many ways, supporting them financially and ethically. he is where my children get their Godly honor from. he is the man of my dreams and the friend of my days, and I am so blessed by him sometimes I can barely speak.
 I am blessed with two beautiful sisters who are so different from each other that I can't believe we are related. They are funny til we pee our pants. Sad til we call 911. And most of all, loved to the moon and back. They are my lifeline to reality. They are sometimes the reason I stay sane and breath.
How do i not mention everyday how thankful I am for my friends? For my Katie Aronin. her compassion and willingness to hear me out good or bad. her willingness to drop everything and come to my side whenever I need her. her ability to see right into the depths of my heart and pull me into her own heart and stop my fears. I love her with my life. My Teresa Harrington, my friend, my conscience, my ability to "get over it". I could not live without her being a phone call away. She is all that I ever wanted to be if I only had the courage. I love her for always sending me back from wherever my life leads me to run to. Everyday, I am thankful for these women.
My Home. how could I ever not be thankful everyday for our home. many people do not have a home. many people only have a house. But our home is filled with so much love, laughter, and living, it is a home. A home that I cherish everyday. Sure it's freezing sometimes. Sure it's smelly sometimes. But the bottom line is, I always want to come here, I always want to be home.
And community and friends and bosses and work. How can I not be thankful everyday for our school and the awesome staff and coaches. They love our children and parent them everyday. They take the next step everyday with my children Or what about the local police chief who stands out in the cold and mans the traffic so our children won't get run over on their way to school. Or what about the guy in charge of our school bussing and transportation. Everyday, I watch him man all of the issues related to bussing and walkers and droppers...really the guy deserves some kind of a medal, or at least Prozac. And then there's Junie Decker and dale Thompson. Always there to mother or grandmother every person they meet. Or the dance teacher Kim? A diamond in the rough, bringing culture to my children in so many ways! And what about the people I work with everyday, The ones who put up with me being late, or calling in. They allow me to parent and grandparent in my own way, in my own style. My children have never known they have a working mother because I have great bosses. They are my friends, they are my family.
And finally, how do I even think about thankfulness without thinking about God? God. A God who gave me these dreams. who took my heart's desire as a scared little girl and gave me a family to love. A God who saw me hiding under a dresser while my father pulled a gun on my mother and tried to shoot her. A God who pulled me out of an abusive marriage. A God who every time I shop at Goodwill gives me beautiful, cheap clothing so I won't feel bad because I have to shop there. A God who I can run to when I lose a spouse, or mother. A God who scooped me up in his arms a s I lost seven babies. A God who watched my son kill himself and was by my side when I fell to my knees that day after finding his lifeless bloody body in his car. A God who has given me the will to get up each day with a thankful heart. A God who let's me see beyond the idiots of this world, the judgers, and allows me the peace to pray for those who try to destroy all that I have and all that I am. And finally a God, who despite my faults, loves me for me and lets me climb in his lap and just rest my silly burdens before Him.
So you see, I cannot just pick one thing a day to be thankful for everyday. My life is so full of stories, events, dumbness, and sometimes outright irritations that I have to be thankful everyday or my head would explode. I cannot fathom. ever , ever choosing one because in the end our heart of hearts are always. always thankful, if we just have the courage to see the blessings right in our own little lives.

Knowing What Fabric is Precious.....Don't cry over spilt milk

Sometimes when I get too much fabric, I have to go through it and determine what to keep, and what to get rid of. I have to determine what's important and what is not.

I guess having nine children has made me just a little bit more relaxed when it comes to spilt milk, broken vases, and ruined clothes. When I was a new mother, I dusted everyday, vacuumed everyday, and did every piece of laundry everyday. But as our family grew, I began to realize that I needed to decide what was worth yelling about,what was worth my time and effort, and what was a teachable moment for my children. As we added children to our little nest it became apparent to me that if I wanted anything precious, it would have to be hidden. If I wanted less mess, the glasses should be half full. And if I wanted nice clothes, I should never dress my kids. I guess what I'm trying to say is that when it is all said and done, and your children are all grown, is it worth your energy and breath to nag them to death about things that are just things and don't matter anyway?

I think of all of the memories of spilt milk, broken vases, and ruined clothes...
Everyday, every single meal, Lacey would spill her milk. She'd sit straight up in her chair, eat her meal perfectly, never getting anything on herself or the table, but inevitably, she would bump that milk cup over. We could put it far away, we could move it side to side, we could even put just a few drops in it, but I tell you that kid spilt that milk. It almost became a game between my husband and I to watch and see just when it was going to happen...maybe that is why she always spilt it, just too many eyes watching the poor little tyke. There we would all be, watching her holding our breaths, and sometimes, just sometimes, she'd almost make it and go to leave the table and "BAM", down the milk would go. This would inevitably lead to peels of laughter and milk shooting out people's noses! Whoops, a memory made again, not a memory of a Momma yelling at her child, but a memory of a family laughing together. I never yelled at her. I never chastised her. Because to me when a child makes a simple mistake like spilling milk, getting upset with them will only promote their need to be perfect, and perfection is a hard rule to live up to, believe me I know.

I am a person who attaches a memory to every object in my home. I do not care if it costs much, I only keep things in my home that have a personal meaning to myself or my family. So when something does get broke, it usually means something dear to me. Once when I was dusting, a task I abhor, I reached up to dust off a musical statue that my mother had left for me after she passed away. I just put my hand upon it, when The head plopped off and hit the floor. "What in the world..." I began to say. I looked over to see two little eyes staring at me.
"Momma, wook what you did! You breaked you favrit tatue! You gonna get in twouble, huh Momma?" Timara's little face all crumpled up and serious. "Youu shouldn't a breaked dat cause dat was you favrit, right Momma?" She stared at me so intentently that I was starting to believe I actually "breaked dat tatue" myself.
"Timara, I am pretty sure that I didn't break that staue. I barely even touched it and the head just fell off. I wonder if you knw who brake it. Do you?" I looked into her little brown eyes to see if there was a bit of guilt laying in them.
She put her hands on her hips, clenched her fists (a sure sign she was about to lie) , and stated, "Now momma, I sawled you breaked dat. I came into the room and you just knocked it wight off dat shelf..."
 I put my hands on my own hips and sternly replied, "Now Timara, Momma did not break this. This staue was given to me by my Momma who lives in heaven. The person who broke this has hurt Momma by not telling me the truth..."
"Oh, Momma, I breaked dat tatue when I was dustin up there by myself. I was ascared you would be mad at me...." and she through herself in my arms. "I so sorry!" I held my little girl and right then and there I made a choice. I chose to love her more than I loved that statue. I chose to give her a lecture about lying and telling when you did something wrong. But I never, ever, made her feel less important than that object that lay on the floor. Later in the quiet of my room, their were some tears shed, but no one knew, especially not Timara that that statue was a gift that my mother cherished. No one needed to know that a prized possession could mean that much. All my kids ever knew was that we didn't tell lies in our house, especially when something got broke.

Because we do have so many children, clothes and laundry and "Shout It Out" are a constant in our home. I remember many days when I did ten loads of laundry a day. I was very thankful back then for the hot New Mexican breeze and a sturdy clothes line.
One day, Tim and I and the kids were visiting friends who lived high up on a mountain. It was just an old dirt road that twisted and turned and wound around a few scattered homes high in the mountains. But to my kids, it was an awesome, huge driveway. It had a huge hill, to play on and run down. Enter- James. James is my daredevil. he will do whatever he can to get a thrill. Bodily harm means nothing to this child, neither did thinking things through.
As Tim and I sat and chatted with the parents outside, we heard a blood curdling scream, "MOM! MOM! James wiped out on a bike down the driveway. He's hurt real bad Mom...you and Dad need to come..." Josh yelled breathlessly running back out the door. We immediately got up and raced to follow him, only to realize that down the driveway was more than a half mile down the road. Turning around, I got the car and caught up with Tim and the kids and threw them in. Finally, we came to James. His head was bleeding, he was a torn up mess, he was crying, and he looked like "Wile E. Coyote" after being thrown off that ledge.
Tim jumped out of the car and began to assess the damage."We gotta take him to the hospital. Think he's got a concussion." Tim turned to Jeff and said, "Good work son, putting this shirt on his head to stop the bleeding...pretty sure the shirts toast though."
I looked over at Jeff and I could see the pride, but I also noticed his face look a little sad as he held his brothers head wit the shirt. I watched him as we locked eyes. He knew, that I knew, that that was his all time favorite shirt. It was expensive and he gave up getting two shirts just for that one. I tried not to cry both for James and Jeff, "I'm really proud of you son, really proud." Jeff wiped away his tears, sucked up his loss, and nodded.
Another memory. Another time that love won over an object. Sometimes as parents, we don't always have the luxury of thinking things through. We don't always have the forethought to just relax and study the situation before we open our mouths. Sometimes, we do yell, we do make mistakes. But the times that we do it right, are the times that mean the most to those people who call us "Momma" and we must always, always be mindful of that. That milk will get spilt, those objects will get broken, and those clothes will get ruined...but the memories will last a lifetime and perhaps, just perhaps, we will take them with us when our babies are all grown up and gone.

   

The Unpatchable Hole....

I think the hardest thing I've ever had to sew on a garment was a hole that was not in a seam. A hole in the middle of ,say a blanket, can be patched. It can be darned, but either way, you can see that there was a hole. The blanket will never be good as new. It is still useful, you can still live with it, and find warmth in it.But, never the less, it has been damaged, and sometimes that damage cannot be fixed without careful time and a serious amount of effort.
This is so true of motherhood when you lose a child. Tim and I and our beautiful family came to a crawling halt just nineteen months ago when our oldest son Jeffrey chose to take his own life. To say that we were and are still shattered is an understatement. Our lives have totally changed. The way we love has changed. Even the way we view God and life has changed. It changed our friendships. It changed our extended family. It even changed our family dynamics. Our lives are ripped apart. The is no seam. There is no sense. There is just a hole buried deep within our hearts that will never fully heal. It is horrid. It is painful. But mostly, it just is.
Everyday, no matter how hard I try, the wound is still there. I have written about him. I have sought help.I have eaten my way through many days. But I still cannot get over this huge hole in my heart. I cannot get over the loss of my son.
My son was always hard to handle. He was moody. He was angry. He was sometimes downright unbearable. But he was also beautiful. He was humorous . He was fun. He was kind. He was giving. He was the silver lining in his own little cloud. And I miss him. I miss him every day. I miss his friends. I miss his athletic events. I miss his smell. I miss his smile. But mostly I miss his voice. I miss him laughing with Katce. I miss him telling me he loves me. I miss hearing him cry. Yes cry, getting out the pain that he so often kept bottled up.
I cannot bring him back. I cannot heal this hole. People say time will heal this wound. But I do not believe it. I do not believe this wound will ever heal. Sure, it will get bandaged. I will nurse it , and put many different salves on it, but basically there will always be a hole in my heart that not even God can fill. You see the loss of a child is every mother's worst nightmare.
I have come to the conclusion that when you lose a child, especially by his own hand, that a piece of you dies with him. Suddenly, he is gone. His body is put beneath the cold, lonely earth , and you are left with an empty grave and an empty heart. But when you bury your child, you do not bury your hopes, your dreams, your memories. You only bury his lifeless body. And so, as life moves on for everyone else, you are left with these burdens, these struggles, these successes, and even these needs. I cannot just stand by while his friends go to college, get married, and start families and not be physically affected. And while I am more than thrilled that they are moving on, there is still a piece of me that aches for his diploma, his career, his marriage, his wife, his children, and his life.
You see, I spent many long days and nights dreaming dreams for this son, for this child who was always so much work. I put a lot of mothering and friendship hours developing a relationship deemed by professionals as impossible bonding. I cried many tears over choices I had to make to help a child whom no one wanted to commit to and adopt. But I did it, and I'd do it all again if I could. His body is gone, but his life is not. It is still here with me, with my husband, with our children. It is here with Melissa, Makenzi, Cody, Jesse, Sarah, with John, with Olivia,...Jeff will always be here. And when they live, he lives. When they hurt, he hurts, at least for me.
I know that I have changed. I know that I am callous to important drama, to current events, and even to some people's needs. How could I not be changed. I am a Momma Kitty who had lost her kitten.I searched for him and what I found was my son's blood splattered all over his clothes. The clothes that  I had washed, the clothes I had dried, the clothes I had folded, and the clothes I had carefully mended so the patch over his tiny hurts wouldn't show. I have a memory of a little lost boy in a man's body begging me to never leave him, begging me for help. I have a memory of him crawling up on my lap that last day, laying his head on my lap , and placing my hand on his fuzzy head and stroking his head with more love than I thought I could ever feel for him again. Then I have a memory of stroking that same precious head as it laid on a pillow in a casket, and pretending that I wasn't dieing inside when they pulled me away from him for the last time. I am changed. How could I not be. I have a hole. A hole that was once filled with challenge, with hopes, with dreams, for a life so precious that I couldn't live without it and now I must.
I guess I write this today because I feel different. I do not fit anymore. I am no longer the mother of all the adopted "Burd" children. I am the mother of the boy who committed suicide. I am not normal. I am crazy. Crazy with grief everyday your child does something that my child never will. Crazy because I cannot support gun control or care who you vote for or even care if the ozone layer burns up. I now care about today. I care about the little faces who call me Momma and Grammie. I care whether they are happy and safe and loved and feel needed. I care where they are at and if they are healthy. I care so much that I am obsessed. I care because I have lost my kitten. I am patching my hole. I will not survive another hole this deep and so I must protect my other kittens from the bad world. It is my job. It is all I know.
So next time you see a Momma who has buried her child. Know that she always needs a hug, that she isn't crazy, that today she may be smiling, but tomorrow she may be putting flowers on her child's grave. But mostly, just mostly, have some compassion for her as she watches your child grow up and live, because you , my mothering friend, are blessed beyond measure ...and may you never, ever, have to patch a hole this big within your blanket of motherhood....

Finishing the Garments...Flying Like a Burd

I remember when I saw him coming towards me that day, I knew he was up to no good. He had his little swimming goggles on, winter gloves, an old camo shirt, and his mud stomping boots. But the best part of this "boy fashioned" outfit was the triangular shaped vinyl siding roped to each arm. His boyish grin was approaching me fast. I knew I had to be on my toes for this one. "Momma? Do you got a ladder?"
Now I chose not to laugh and looking my serious six year old son straight in the eye, I carefully replied. "James, you're gonna try to fly aren't you..." He shook his head in affirmation. Tim looked up from his paper now, quite amused that his young son had the same initiative that he too had as a child.
"I'm gonna get on the roof Momma, and jump. Mara tied this real tight and if I calculated my figures right, I can fly!" James explained with sheer joy oozing from his new found career. First of all, I was pretty sure that James didn't know what calculate even meant and second of all, it was a true miracle that he hadn't been killed in any of the other "career moves" that he'd calculated in the past.
I looked at him and started to speak, but Tim, trying to serious and contain his laughter advised James, "Now, James, I think if we cut that triangle right up the middle and when you get up there, you start running and flapping real hard, well, I think you'll fly!" I looked at my husband who was now peeling in laughter and his son was about to go and find something to cut his wings.
"Tim, are you crazy?" a phrase I uttered to him almost on a daily basis since I married him. "James, you are not, I repeat, not getting a ladder and jumping off to fly. You'll break every bone in your body and I am not in the mood to take you to the hospital. Daddy is being silly. Now, give Momma a kiss and go play..." James looked at his Daddy, who nodded and laughed as he headed for the door.
"Bye, Momma!" he yelled after my hug and kiss, "I'm gonna go and..." his voice trailed off as he headed to Grandma's next door.
I raced to the phone and called Virginia, "Look out your window. He's gonna ask for a ladder..."
Virginia started to chuckle, "Gonna try to fly today huh? Well, I'll feed him some ice cream and send him home!" I could hear her laughing as she hung up explaining to Gramps what his youngest grandson was up to today.
Kids. Kids learning to do the impossible. Kids learning to fly. I think that for me, that is the hardest part of motherhood; letting them go and letting them learn to fly. We parent our kids and we nurture them. We teach them how to eventually leave our nest and become wonderful, thriving adults. We want them to grow up and be an inaugural, life changing part of our community- "make the world a better place so to speak". But what I failed to realize is that with each life lesson, I am actually pushing my children out of the nest. Slowly, carefully nudging them towards the edge so that they will one day fly out on their own. At first, it wasn't too hard to send them off into adulthood and college. After all, our nest was pretty full and having a little more room to spread our wings felt good.
But now, as I am faced with three children graduating this year and leaving our nest left with just one Baby Burd, I realize I don't want to nudge anymore. I don't want to teach them life lessons. I don't want them to be prepared to live without me. I just want to love them. I want to love their lives. I want to watch every sporting event in slow motion. Laugh at every joke they say. Praise every moment they choose to grace me with their presence. Listen as they babble on and on about insignificant issues that will be forgotten tomorrow. I breath in every moment of everyday. I am exhausted. But I savor every moment because I know, once they fly away, they will be different. They will be grown. And my position in their lives will be changed forever. I will become more of a friend and less of a boss. I will be "Mom", and "Momma" will be a person in their childhood memories. But I know this year will pass. They will grow up. They will graduate, at least that's the plan. They will fly away. I know I must nudge because like it or not, it's coming.

 And so I teach. I weep. I pray. I watch. I nudge. But there is still, in the back of my mind, the knowledge that a moment is coming when I will be standing  with the scissors and ladder and looking up and quietly whispering, "I love you James, fly like a Burd, baby, fly like a Burd!"

Following the Pattern...Trusting the Maker

I think as a parent, the scariest moments in my life have been when my children were ill and I couldn't nurse them back to health on my own. Having to seek medical treatment for an unknown ailment and not being in total control of your child or the situation is a helpless feeling that few of us, thank God, have ever had to experience....
Katie-Grace was  weeks when she began to fuss for no apparent reason. We were enjoying a leisurely afternoon at the track field watching our children compete, when for no reason at all, she began to whimper and cry. Since all of the new sounds and sights were unfamiliar, Tierney and I took her to the van to watch from there and see if she would settle down. But after a few minutes, she quickly grew worse, and her whimpers turned into screams. I stared at my little girl and looked deep into her pleading eyes, "Tierney, somethings wrong with this baby. Honey, somethings really wrong. We need to go home and take her temperature." Tierney nodded on agreement and we raced home.
"Her temp is over 101degrees Momma- I've taken it twice," my daughter looked at me worried. Katce was still crying. "I think you're right Momma, we gotta take her now. Let's just go and I'll call Daddy." Tierney called her dad and within minutes, we were packed up and in the car with my scared little baby girl in the back crying.
"You're sure she had a temp, she registers fine now," the attending physicians assured me. She kept checking katce over and looking at every part of her. Tierney and I both nodded. "Then by law, I have to do a spinal tap. It's standard procedure. But you're sure?" she explained. I looked at my small, precious baby, our gift from God. Tears ran down my cheeks as I nodded again. My baby just stared at me, her bug eyes seemed to be begging for help.
We could hear her screaming when Tim arrived. He looked harried and overwhelmed. I updated him and the doctor came out and said that she couldn't get into Katce's spine. "I want to admit her," she said matter of factly. "We'll keep her here for now, but we may have to transfer her- at this point, I just don't know..."
It had been two days, two days and no improvement. I was staying with her around the clock and a different child came from home to help me. Tim came every chance he could. It was late the second night, Katce was screaming again. She just wouldn't stop. I began to cry as I rubbed her frail, little body. I could tell she was in pain. I could tell she needed help and we were just not finding the answer to her ailment. We were talking with the doctor and it looked like we were going to be sent to a larger hospital for children. they were so concerned because her fever would not break. It was always at least 101 degrees, but had went as high as 103 degrees. I was in a panic. I was exhausted both physically and mentally. I started to croon to her. It was late, at least 3am, and she was still crying...I just wept softly, singing and holding her. Poor Katce. Were we going to lose her now? Was this gift only given to us for such a short time, only to be ushered from our lives forever?
I could see she was dying. The nurses were quiet and solemn. I could hear them whisper with heavy faces. I knew their comments were not good. I continued to pray and sing Bible songs to her. "Lord, I love this child. I love her more than my life. But she is suffering. She is suffering so much. I cannot help her. Please Lord, if she is going to continue to suffer and die a painful death, will you please take her from me. I want her to be happy and healthy. I want her to stop suffering so..." and I laid my head next to her and sobbed uncontrollably. All of the sudden, Katce stopped crying. The nurse came over, and checked her.... the fever had broken.
Katce stared at me and grasped my finger. She was resting. She was at peace. for the first time in three days, my sick baby girl was not screaming. Her eyes quickly drooped and she fell into a deep, deep sleep. Thank you God, thank you so much! And I knew, I knew as we transferred her to a bigger hospital- she would be okay. I knew when they told us she had meningitis and a bad kidney- she would live. I knew when we spent twenty one days in the ICU- she would come home with us one day. I knew when she wouldn't eat and we had to feed her through a tube- she was going to make it. And I knew on our way home, that I had a God who needed me to give this child back to Him one more time- that I had forever, forever had an answer to my prayer.
I guess the moral to the story is that sometimes as a parent, I do not have control. I cannot fix it all. But faith can move mountains, miracles do happen. Every single day I watch my children live a miracle life . I am thankful. I am blessed. But mostly I am grateful that I have and they have a God who loves them so much, that he will step up and take care of them when my feeble, earthly ways cannot.
Today, Katie-Grace is med free. She runs and laughs and lives. She paints the dog with yogurt, puts mozzarella string cheese in the dryer, and occasionally is known to draw on her sleeping sister's face with permanent marker. All by the grace of God.

Security Blankets...All Wrapped Up in Love...

Last night as I cuddled my little granddaughter, J'Lynnie, I realized that the first thing I do before I hoist her on my lap, is grab a "blankie". I bring her to my chest, wrap that blankie around her, and begin to softly croon lullabies while quietly rocking and rubbing her little body. She loves this, all children do. They like the hush sounds, the gentle touches; the assured security. Security. A word that, unfortunately, isn't always being considered in this day and age to be a factor in  properly caring for youngsters. And to me, that is a sad testimony to our culture and society.
I guess I didn't really grow up with a true sense of security. I was never really sure what was going to happen at home from one day to the next. Life was  chaotic. Drinking, failing marriages, and no money, were all a lot for a small child to know about. So when I entered adulthood and starting having children of my own, my whole goal in their little lives was to make sure that they had a safe and secure upbringing. To me security means a home where they can come and find refuge when life gets too tough. A place that smells like fresh baked cookies and crumbs on the floor. A place that when the lights go out at night, there are no monsters, just beautiful dimly lit rooms filled with memories made in love. Security to a child means never knowing that the bills may not be paid or that the "wolf" is at the door. It means enough food in the fridge to fill a gnawing tummy and a tall glass of fresh water in a clean glass. It means daily washed  clothes that smell of perfume. It means looking out in the stands and knowing your parents are there watching your every play of the game. It means they'll be there waiting with a smile after you've  won or  lost and never chastising you for the latter. It means a hot bath with bubbles and water all over the floor and not getting yelled at because they forgot they weren't in swimming  pool. Security means eating nightly dinners together at the table and laughing when someone farts or food shoots out their nose. It simply means putting your children first. Making sure that they have a childhood full of goofy pranks and silly dreams. It means when life knocks them down, their parent is there to pick them up, put them in their arms, and wrap a blankie around them so tight, that the world and it's ugliness goes away, at least for a little while.
Every child  or grandchild in my home has a special blankie sewn or picked out by me. Before I gave birth to my daughters, I handstiched each little girl her own special  blankie. Before we adopted our children, each one had a handmade blankie waiting on their bed for them. I did it so that  they would always know that their Momma loved and prepared a special home for them even before they came to live fwith us forever. Each child has been wrapped in their blankie, sung their own personal lullaby, and tucked in safe at night. Every night that same blankie was snuggled right up under their chin with a smooch placed firmly on their faces. My children have drug those blankies everywhere, to the grocery store, to the playground, to their forts, even to their married homes. They know that with those blankies comes a sense of home, love, safety, and more important security.
I know it sounds silly, maybe even childish, but I sleep with a blankie myself. When the long day has ended and I feel even the least little bit ill, I go to the wall hanging, pull off my blankie, and climb into bed, cuddling under it for a sense of safety. And somehow, it works. I fall right to sleep and wake up feeling refreshed and alert. What is special about my blankie is that my daughter quilted it for me. Each stitch was her attempt at making me feel loved and secure. Is it beautiful? Sure it is, but it could be the ugliest blanket in the world and I would still display it proudly because it was made in love. Even my husband Tim has a blankie given to him from Kayla,  and he too has been secretly known (when he is ill of course), to pull it off it's hanger and crawl up underneath it. Blankies are not just for kids, even we adults need them when our world becomes more than we can bear.
I guess what I'm getting at here, is that children are cute. We can dress them up. We can play with them. But if we, as parents and grandparents, don't take the time to pick out a blankie with them, and give them some nurturing and cuddling, then we are going to end up with a society filled with children who have no sense of security. A society where human life in disposable. A life where we get tired of our children and stop making them our first priority. A world full of money sucking vacuums, that exist purely to fill the hole created by a false sense of security. Is that what we as parents want? Of course not, but if we look around, that's what we have.
So today, go home to your children. Listen to their insignificant babble. Hoist them up on your lap, gently kiss their face, and tell them they matter more than your own goals. And then wrap a blankie around them and just sit quietly holding the most precious gift of all....life.

Add a Little Facing... The Coaches in our Kids' Lives

On our own we cannot make a garment strong....we need a little interfacing...
Because I have so many children, and all of them are involved in sports in one way or another, coaches play a huge role in forming my children's character and self esteem. I am not going to lie to you. We have had some tremendously "great" coaches, but we have also had the occasional "bad" coach as well.
We could sit and talk all day about the "bad" coaches and how they messed up our children or made them feel  horrible about themselves and their athletic skills. But really, sometimes it is these coaches that actually make our children stronger and more resilient as athletes as well as human beings. If we as parents, work with our children to get them through a tough season, then the damage from a "bad" coach can really be minimized. If not, pull your child from the sport, and help to get a new coach for the next season.
What I really want to address today is the "great" coaches, and believe me, there are some great coaches. Some coaches greatness comes form purely knowing their sport and teaching your child everything they know. Thus the child grows in ability and character. Some coaches are "great" because they know children and can handle a bunch of attitudes and use that knowledge to bring out your child's pure love for the game. But there are some coaches who are "great" because they have that rare combination of both. They can teach your children how to play well and they can teach them how to have good attitudes while doing it.
What I love about coaches who have the whole package, is their ability to read their team as both individuals and as a whole group. What happens is that these coaches know their team's strengths and weaknesses and are able to maximize both in order to promote change throughout the year. This permeates into a team attitude that winning may not be everything, but gaining and improving each game becomes a goal. The children are expected to do their best, and recognized by a "great" coach when they do. This makes our children want to participate in the sport for the sheer pleasure of self improvement.
A "great" coach also knows how to critique and not criticize. This is concise dealings with your child to express his athletic shortcomings without tearing into his spirit. The coach talks to the child, commanding respect instead of demanding it, which in turn leads the child to respect himself as well. Some coaches do this in private, but there are some coaches who have the unique ability to critique your child in front of his teammates. This takes special finesse involving others in this chat can enable other teammates to see that they all have some skills to work on as well.
A quality high on my list for a "great" coach, is one who can handle both the ruly and unruly parent. If a coach believes enough in his or her ability as a coach, that character trait will prove itself in the way that communicates well to parents. No cursing, throwing fits, or having bad attitudes, but speaking in a poised, patient, manner presents itself well especially to a parent who may or may not be on the war path. Children normally are who they are from their parents, and some parents radiate idiocy when talking to a coach. This parent must be handled with the idea that in order to bring out the best in the child, this parent needs to be dealt with tactfully, yet never changing who the coach is.
Finally, and probably the most important trait of a "great" coach is the ability to love your child beyond the sport and see that what your child needs to grow into a superb adult some day. A "great" coach can learn to read his/her players and know instinctively what will help mold this child. There are not many coaches who have this trait, but let me as a parent of nine athletes name a few...

Coach Pat Ventura of New Mexico: drove my child thirty miles everyday to school so that my son, Jeff, who was failing at his regular school, could get a fresh start. Worked with him personally everyday on his football skills and character. This coach loved children and is a real credit to his peers. Incidentally, when Jeff many years later committed suicide, the only letter and memento Jeff kept was one form this coach, what this says to me is that my son had enough love to think of this coach in his last days.
Coach Tony Joosteburns of Michigan: this coach took a team of giggly little girls and led them to a team championship simply by being a "great" coach. He taught them all he knew about softball and then when things got tough, had them turn their hats around backwards to play relaxed. The children got a sense that Tony didn't care if they lost, he just wanted them to have a good time. And they did...they won.
Coach Sarah Carpenter of Michigan; Sarah coaches varsity volleyball. She has coached a winning regional team and she has coached a losing team. What she has is the grace and dignity that a lot of coaches lack to see into the spirits and lives of her girls. She looks at each strength and then sees what is needed for her team. She never promotes one child, but concentrates on her team as a whole.This brings together a team that looks not at the wins, but as the gains. My daughter Timara has grown immensely as a player and a young woman.
Coach Brian Lincoln of Michigan: A controversial coach in football, he has allowed my special needs son, Arden, to be a part of his team for four years now. Arden manages and waters these boys. It has given my child identity, purpose and camaraderie amidst his peers. Coach Lincoln maintains a friendship off the field with Arden as well, and this shows my son that that there are many facets to being a coach, not just what you see on the field or in the locker room.
Dance teacher Kimberly Roderiguez: although not a "coach" per say. Kim has the ability to teach a wide range of children to dance. What Kim provides for these children is the character to build on over and ever again throughout the years. She teaches these children to see beyond their talents and body images and brings out the best dancers they can be. There is never negativity from Kim to her students, but a respect commanded, that enables her to teach these children to thrive on movement and the music. They never realize at first that those movements are "dance skills". Her happiness in her art is shown throughout the community where no one calls her "Mrs. Roderiguez", she is merely known as "Miss Kim". When my son died, she kept a careful watch on both of my daughters and allowed them to grieve and grow through dance. her love and guidance is a rare treasure that all coaches should possess.
Again, Coach Brian Lincoln of Michigan: Brian coaches track also and coached my son Jeff for three years. Jeff had no self esteem when he began running, mainly because he wanted to be instantly good. Brian taught Jeff to never give up on himself or his team. By teaching Jeff to be patient and believe in himself and his abilities, Brian lead Jeff to break seven school records. Jeff also learned to be a team player which helped him both on the track and at home. I truly believe in my heart that this coach gave my son focus throughout the final years of his life.Brian in essence gave us four more years with our son.
I believe though that my favorite coach was Coach Chris Ventura of New Mexico: I say this because Chris really new how to just have fun with his team of children in  little league co-ed softball. None of my children were on his team but what he did for the children watching his skills and team perform with love and genuine fun was a true feat to watch. Here is just one of many examples of Chris' love for children......
My son Arden can hit, and he can hit well, but he cannot run. So Arden was never able to get to home plate because he was always getting out before he hit first. We were playing Chris' team and they were up by one and  Arden was coming to bat. Everyone held their breath because they new Arden would get out and we would lose the game. The pitch was thrown, and Arden swung...missed...strike one! Another pitch was thrown...too high...ball one! The next pitch came and Arden belted it clear to the fence..a home run...but his little legs just couldn't get him to first fast enough. The ball was drilled into first, but miraculously thrown too high. Arden looked up and the crowd rared for Arden to run to second. He ran with all he had as the ball whizzed past the second baseman into center field. The crowd begged Arden again to race to third. Tears began to well in my eyes and in my heart as my son circled third base and ran to home plate. "Run, Arden, run!" the crowd on both teams rallied. Both dugouts were on the field as the ball was thrown in and the catcher caught it as Arden came up three feet short. The catcher looked at the ball, looked at Arden breathlessly racing towards him, and purposely dropped the ball just as Arden ran across home plate.  He had scored his first home run. Both teams came up and threw my son on there shoulders and carried him around the field. Everyone in the stands was bawling and hugging. I looked over through tear stained eyes at Coach Chris Ventura who looked up from hugging my son, and he just nodded and smiled, holding back tears.
"I made a homerun, Momma, did you see it..." he went on and on shrieking with excitement...
"Yes, Bubby, I saw it...you did the bestest ever!" and I clutched my son to me tight as I stared at my husband (the other coach) while he shook hands blubbering like a girl with the best coach ever!

Using a Pattern...teach your kids to drive safely...

Sometimes we just cannot get a garment to turn out right without a pattern...be a pattern for your children...
As my children enter their senior year of high school, I am sadly reminded of the recklessness of teen drivers. Statistics show that teen drivers are by far the most careless drivers of all drivers on the road. While many guidelines and laws have been put into place to protect children, tragic accidents still happen due to mere neglect from these young drivers. Because there are so many distractions for these young drivers, it is imperative that we, as parents, talk to our children each and everyday to remind them that when they are in the car, they have not only their lives at the wheel, but also the lives of other drivers and passengers as well. Texting, music, laughter, food, and drink are only a few of the distractions that must be avoided at all cost. Putting your foot down as a parent and warning, even nagging if you will, may not only save your child's life, but also the lives of countless others. So parents, let's step up, be parents, and get our kids attention to drive safely.
In 1981, when I was a senior at school, I woke up one morning to a phone call that forever changed my perception of driving and safety on the roads. Two of my friends were in a car accident. One friend lost his life as their car slammed into a tree. The other friend was driving and lost his leg as a result. I wrote a poem about this incident ....

 

 

The Memory and Love of You

 

The day began one early morn,

The news was heard,their hearts were torn,

A life was gone, a friend was lost,

Another hurt, his leg the cost.

His friends they met, they talked, they cried,

They couldn't believe that he had died.

"He was too young", that's what they said,

"Why did God call him to His bed?"

 

The night, the rain, the silent fear,

The curve, the tree, his death was near.

Just two began, but one remained,

The ride, the flash, a timeless strain.

Their voices, their hurry, their rush, and scurry,

Their prayer, their tears, within silent fury,

One silent now forevermore,

The other rests at death's still door.

 

November's bright and cheerless day,

All and all they arrived to pray.

Pallbearer's silent tears so gray,

Would nothing hush that dread away?

A Pastor's voice, a heart felt prayer,

So many stood for one not there.

A bed of death, of earth, and stone,

A bed for one to rest alone.

 

The book has closed, the storm has passed,

The day, the hour, the time doesn't last.

The future life is guidance clear,

Life goes on with cautious gear.

Remembering his smiling face,

His cheery jokes, his zest, and grace.

each one will start their day anew,

The memory and love of you.

 

Kari L. Burd

in memory of Randy Tolles and Robbie Wilson

written: December 4, 1981

 



Strenghtening the Seams

As I was reading a post today on facebook, it occurred to me just important chores are in the lives of our family members. When we first adopted our big family of five, I knew that it was going to take everything that we had to make not only our family dynamics work, but also our household as well. And so, that is when the infamous "chore list" was born.
There are a number of basic chores that every household needs done in order to survive. There are also those chores that while they do not need to be done everyday, they still need to addressed. Kind of like the care of clothes, they have to be washed everyday, but every now and then there is a tear or a button missing that I have to sit down and fix. Thus, it is the same with the chores.
I started with a chalk board posted in the kitchen in an area that each child could easily see. I listed each child's name, their chore (based on there age and ability), and then a space for there dish night date. We had baths, dust, floors, set/clear, put laundry away, small trashes, large trashes, and yard. Then in each room, I place a list of what needed to be done for that particular chore, that way, there was never any second guessing by the children. The chores were pretty easy with none of them taking more than 20 minutes a night and if their chore didn't need to be done, that was their call to make. If the said chore did not get done, a check was placed by the persons name, and after two checks in one week, another chore would be added just for inspiration. I also awarded every week the child who had done there chore very well by doing that chore for the next week myself.
Usually, we never had any problems with the chores being done and done properly, but every now and then, some child would get an unusually busy week, which was either fun outside activities, or be on the phone in "love conversations". A few times, when this happened and there were no legitimate reasons for their slacking on the said chores, by the end of the week that child would just about be doing every chore in the house. Which, in itself, brought great joy to the other children and quite an attitude to the offender, which for me was worse than a dirty house.
I prided myself on the "chore list" because not only did it keep our home running smoothly, but it taught our children to take responsibility for caring for a household. My children can all iron, do laundry, and properly clean any room in the house. And over the years, as our needs as a family change, children moved out into homes of their own, the job list has been modified and updated. That's one nice thing about a large family, nothing ever stays the same.
I think over the years though their has been a few times when the children slacked off, and "Momma" stepped into make a point...
It's five o'clock, and as usual, four sets of big wide eyes, are staring at me from over the counter. "We're hungry, when we gonna' eat?" those eyes seemed to implore. I just kept smiling as I cleared the schoolwork off the table, as I set the table, as I placed the food on the table...I called all of the children to eat. We all joined hands as Tim prayed and then Tim smiled at me and the children started reaching for the food. "Hey, this stuff is cold and the hamburger meat is raw in that dish!" they all said in amazement and looking to see what the joke was.
But the laughter quickly died down when they saw the smile leave my face, "Today and this past week, instead of being your Momma, I have had to spend my days doing all of your chores. These chores have kept me busy all day. I can either be your Mother or your maid. Today , I was your maid and so your Momma just didn't have time to cook. Sorry, you'll have to eat it raw." I said matter of factly and placed my hot cooked food on my plate and their dad's plate as well. Believe me, the point was definitely made as they ate peanut butter and jelly while Tim and I enjoyed their favorite cooked meal, plus desert.
I guess the moral to the story is that chores are important. They need to be enforced, and sometimes they need to be modified. They teach our children the importance of responsibility,the importance of a clean home, and also the important role of parents in their lives.

Toiletries...

As a Momma to nine children and a Grammie to four children, I have been blessed with some pretty good material for entertainment. It occurred to me this morning as Katce screamed from the echoing bathroom, "Momma, come look at my poop!", that perhaps no one person has to do more gross things than we mothers do. I do not know why it is so important that I look at my children's poop, but to them, it is or was (depending on the age) very important. So I went in the bathroom and made a big deal out of my youngest daughters latest deposit to the sewer. The poop really wasn't out of the norm, nothing great . I mean, I would not have sold tickets or anything. But to Katce, it was a monumental occasion, so I clapped and told her, "Good job!" Really what else is a mother to say?
 I started to ponder and I realized that a lot of funny, forgive the pun, crap has happened in or around our bathrooms over the years. So at the risk being too risky, here goes....
Flunking the "Pee Test"
I remember the time one of our sons had to have a urine test before minor surgery. I took him into the bathroom and said, "Here's this cup. Now just fill it up and when you're done leave it on the sink."
My son nodded in total understanding and so I left and shut the door. Ten minutes later, he still was not out of the bathroom. People with glazed over eyes, were starting to plan a "Coo", so I got in the front of the line and knocked. "Honey, what are you doing in there?" I asked rather embarrassed.
"Mom, you need to come in here!" a voice from the other side exclaimed in a panic. I opened the door slowly and slid in. Oh my goodness, there was pee everywhere.
"Son, what the heck happened?" I asked trying to grasp how this much pee could get all over and how we were gonna clean it up.
"Well Mom, I'll tell ya. I filled that cup three times and never fell once while I was dumping back into the toilet- until that last time. Then I fell and it spilled everywhere! can i be done Momma because i really don't think I can fill it up one more time...." he answered, his big brown eyes defeated.
"It's okay Bubby. We'll clean this up and take a break. Since you did so good, let's just fill it up once next time and leave it on the sink., okay?" The boy nodded and we went to work cleaning up the mess only to spend the next 30 minutes drinking water to make more urine for the test....
The End of the Roll...
Apparently when our children were in foster care, they were not allowed to put their toilet paper in the toilet, but had to put it in the trash. Now I found this completely gross, and insisted that everyone place their paper in the toilet and flush. Well, this was great fun for a couple of our children, but one child in particular was thrilled that he could not only flush the toilet himself, but with paper too, and so the game was on. Every time this child went to the bathroom, it would take him like thirty minutes. His game was to see how much paper he could get in there before it wouldn't flush. And the answer is? It takes approximately one and a half rolls before you have to realistically call a plumber. However, if you have pooped first, you can get away with one roll. Unfortunately, the latter was the plumbers problem.
It Gets a Little Touchy
I have always been a strong advocate that out children have a "hands on" kind of childhood. I let them play with pudding, mud pies, sugar, really anything they wanted to touch and get dirty with, I just let them. So keeping this in mind, imagine my surprise when I hear Joshua yell, "Mom...(gag).. come here quick (gag again)...Katie-Grace is ...well...she's in here squishing her poop (gag and then start to throw up)...you really gotta get her (gag) and make her stop!"
I come running in and sure enough, she had both her hands up to her elbows in the toilet bow, just having the time of her life! "Katce, did you poop in the potty?" I asked trying not to laugh.
"No Momma, I din't hab too..." she said matter of factly. This statement sent Josh clear into the next county and I just sort of stared at her in unbelief. There really wasn't much I could do, so I pulled her hands out, washed her up, gave her a lecture and not playing with our poop, emphasizing that we didn't play with anyone else's either...
The Little Differences
"Momma, you come here quick...real quick Momma...it's a urgency (emergency)!" I hear Dragos scream in terror! I race into the the bathroom and count my three kids who were bathing together...sheesh....they were all there and all above the 5 inches of water.
"Dragos, you scared the crap out of Momma. What's the emergency?" hands on hips waiting for an explanation.
"Momma, Mare-Mare's wost her Weeah? She stand up and it gone!" he answered in total terror.
"Honey", I tried not to laugh, "Mare-Mare doesn't have a weeah, because she's a girl!"
"Well, dat good cause I wooked in dis tub and it ain't in here! What do she got?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed together.

FIRE
When you have a lot of children, one of your worst nightmares is a fire in the house. I mean I know that no one wants a fire in their home, but for me the frightening thought of finding and getting them all out, is ten times more scary. Unfortunately, one hot summer day...
"Momma, is dat fire sposed to be cummin outta dat dishwahser?" Timara asked inquisitively.
I looked at her, grabbed her, and screamed, "No baby, the house is on fire!" I ushered her out. Began yelling at the other kids and watched them get out while I was frantically calling 911.
"Jeff, Tierney's in the shower....get her out and get outta this house!" I commanded my nine year old son. he did as he was told and yelled at the bathroom door and went outside.
The fire department came while I was extinguishing the fire and began cutting into our home, and filling the place with water. All of the sudden, the bathroom door opened and out popped Tierney in a towel. "Tierney, what the heck are you doing in the shower?" I snapped at her.
"Mom, getting clean," she laughed, "and why are all of these firemen here?" she asked innocently.
"Apparently to see you in a towel!" Tim informed her. Her face got beat red as she pulled her towel up.
"Why didn't you get out when Jeff told you?" I demand.
"Mom! You know they always say there's a fire when they want in...I thought they were just wanting in!"....Poor kid never took a calm shower again....

Over the years we have had more toiletry stories, but those are some of my favorites...what about you....surely, I'm not the only person who has toilet humor everyday!

All the Trimmings....Grandbabies...

I stood outside the hospital room door as I listened to my little girl give birth to her child, my first Grandchild, and I wept. I wanted to go in. I wanted to ease her "natural" pain, but I had been banned to the hallway. My daughter and her husband are big on privacy and intimacy, so I had to lay low and wait until they were ready for me to become a part of the "birthing world".
And so I waited, and waited, and waited. Suddenly, there was a hush, and as my son-in-law's mother stood by me with our ears pressed against the door, we heard a cry. At first it was soft, but then it became very loud and feisty. Finally, a "Grammie and Nanna" were born!  I grabbed her hand and raced with Katie as fast as I could back to the waitingroom to wait for Ben to tell us the good news. We could hear the nurses snickering as we ran because they actually propped the door open so we could hear what was going on in that hospital room.
Ten minutes later Ben appeared with the biggest blessing of my life, my Grandson, Caleb Owen Aronin.
 I just stared. He was so beautiful. We went down to the room and after they cleaned him up a bit, they placed him in my arms and that was it. I would never be the same. My heart melted as I  saw our future together in the years to come where I would do anything to make this child happy. He looked deep into my eyes in that moment and I began to croon to him, my heart dancing inside that this new life would actually be mine to share in forever.  And of course, he was perfect. I kissed his hands, his little toes, checked him out in every way that they'd let me.
I looked over at my daughter, Lacey, and I realized that our bond would never be the same. She was a mother now and I would have to step back and let her mother and love her child in her own way and not my way. I would have to hush my mouth and only give advice when it was sought, not when it could be rendered. I would have to watch her make mistakes, flounder, and perhaps shed many tears. That would be hard for an overprotective mother and now grandmother like me. But I could do it. I could and would be the best Grammie that this child would ever have....

The Best Grandma...
I would stand at the doorway yelling and screaming at the top of my lungs, "Is she here yet? Where is she Momma? I want Grandma Marian now!" I would wait by the door forever for her because she was the best. Then soon, as we pressed our noses up against the window, she would pull in the drive, get out with her little bag of treats and head for the door.
"Grandma's here and boy did I bring you some fun treats to day!" she'd giggle and one by one she would hand out the greatest treats in the world. There would be decorated cookies, designer candy, and small toys. We would look up at her with such love, wonder, and amazement,  thanking her over and over as she stood looking down on us in all her glory.
The other kids would always scamper off and leave, but I would not. I would sit at my Grandma's feet and play while she and my mother had coffee and chatted and gossipped. I would learn all of the juicy stuff that happened everywhere. The aroma of coffee and cigarettes would fill the air as they laughed and chuckled for what seemed like hours. Oh how I loved her!
She would take me, her "Dolly" every Friday that she could, down to the hair salon and buy me a candy bar and a coke. I would be in a cute little dress (Grandma loved cute little dresses), and I would sit with my feet dangling from a big hairdryer chair. I would hang on every word that me Grandma and the other women would say. They would talk about the soap opera Days of Our Lives, and men, and all the events of the day. Every now and then Grandma would say, "Gads" which I knew meant that they had crossed the line in conversation and shocked Grandma. The conversation would quickly change and more talk would ensue. Then we would leave and have lunch across town at the boarding house with Blanche (who wore enough make-up to scare any child), and I would play with her white poodle with the bow and red nail polish. What heaven! Those days as a child with Grandma made life worth living!
As I grew up, we began to have different traditions, go out for Belgian waffles (her favorite), go to a banquet, go shopping, and later I'd take her and help her run errands. I would spend many Saturdays hemming her pants, sewing her dresses, and listening to the latest gossip. Her "fitting sessions" were like going back in time for me when I laid at her feet and listened to she and my mother gossip the afternoon away. I could, as a  young teenager and adult confide everything to her. She would listen intently, giving her opinion, and then watching to see if I was going to adhere to what she said (sometimes I did not) or go my own way. If I went down the wrong path, she was always, always there to support me. She was everything every little girl could want in a Grandma. She was pink carnations and Jergen's lotion and mint green. She was pretty birthday packages, pretty cakes, and a perfectionist. She was and is, one of the strongest influences I have ever known.
Then one early morning the phone rang. You know the call that no one wants to get? Tim looked at me, his face taunt, "Honey, Grandma Marian's gone. Sweetness, she passed away  from a heart attack at home!".....the pain that ensued and the great loss I felt, has still and will always leave a deep scarring hole in my heart for a woman who meant more to me then any other woman in the world...
I spoke at her funeral, reading this poem that I had written earlier the previous day. With a heart heavy with grief, I paid homage to the best "Grandma" in the world.....

"Grandma's Dolly"

The baby cried so softly,

as she peered from through the glass,

her prayers were finally answered,

her "Dolly" was here at last.

The "Dolly" she adored her,

it was a "love at first sight",

a life-long bond was formed between them,

that late January night.

She spoiled  the little toddler,

buying her candy and a pop,

the two became a common sight,

Fridays at the beauty shop

Dolly'd listen to the gossip,

watch the lady "tease " her hair,

Dolly's feet would dangle loudly

as she sipped cola from her chair.

 

And...

all I ever had to do

was reach for Grandma's hand,

she gently soothed my tenders fears

as only Grandmas can.

 

Sometimes she'd call up Dolly, and take her to a play

or meet for Belgium waffles,

and laugh til  their sides ached.

Dolly'd send her pink carnations,

the only flower that would do,

they seem to make her happiest,

and say, "I sure love you!"

Together they'd go shopping,

of course they'd buy mint green,

it wasn't Dolly's favorite color,

but to her it was so keen.

 

And...

all I ever had to do

was reach for Grandma's hand,

she gently soothed my tender fears

as only Grandmas can.

 

One day Dolly came to see her,

she made a big mistake,

Dolly found out that she was pregnant,

unwed choices left to make.

Dolly thought that she would hate her,

because she'd brought to her this shame,

but she opened her arms and held her

telling Dolly there'd be no blame.

It wouldn't be the first time

her Dolly'd make an awful choice,

but she'd never condemn her precious girl,

her nays she'd never voice,

 

And...

all I ever had to do

was reach for Grandma's hand,

she gently soothed my tender fears

as only Grandmas can.

 

Then came the dreaded phone call,

Dolly'd "Favorite" she was ill,

her heart was medically broken
they couldn't fix it with a pill.

But Dolly wouldn't leave her there

she drove sixty miles each way,

to see her treasured loved one

each and every day.

The doctors seemed to fix her,

she healed and felt brand new,

Dolly'd watch her live her life again

and thank God for miracles too.

 

And...

all I ever had to do

was reach for Grandma's hand,

she gently soothed my tender fears

as only Gramdmas can.

 

The years they passed so swiftly

 and Dolly had finally grown,

a wedding, a home, eight children,

a family of her own.

Yet she never ever wavered,

she'd send all the grandkids a gift,

never missed a Christmas or birthday,

their happiness her only wish.

And though their were few visits,

few gifts and ne'er a call,

she loved each and every grandchild,

it was her only fault.

 

And...

all I ever had to do

was reach for Grandma's hand,

she gently soothed my tender fears

as only Grandmas can.

 

 

She loved her precious Dolly

and never said a word,

as Dolly's family moved so far away,

only distant voices to be heard.

Her eyes began to falter,

she couldn't see a thing,

she longed for Dolly's visits,

and Christmas bells yet ti ring.

And oh how they would celebrate

and catch up on the news,

making the most of those valued times,

 for now they were so few.

 

And...

all I ever had to do

was reach for Grandma's hand,

she gently soothed my tender fears

as only Grandmas can.

 

She stepped out of the auto,

she reached for Dolly's hand,

she held it tightly to steady herself,

until she could finally stand.

 the lady she was waiting,

to fix her Gramma's hair,

as Dolly sat down beside her,

with her cola and her chair.

her feet no longer dangled

as her eyes filled up with tears,

and she watched her treasured Gramma

turn older through the years.

 

And...

All she ever had to do

was reach for Dolly's hand,

she gently sothed her tender fears

as only Granddaughters can.

 

I do not have my Grandma,

she has gone to be with God.

her hand I shall never hold again,

it seems so very odd.

I so miss being her "Dolly"

and though I'm all full grown,

I'll always be the little girl

 who had the finest Grandma ever known.

 

with love,

always,

Kari "Dolly" Burd

The Square of Reward...Baby Katie-Grace

Sometimes in life, God asks us to give up our dreams in order for Him to do His will. I had to give up my dream of raising an infant with Tim in order for us to adopt our five children from New York. It was very hard for me to do this, because I am selfish when it comes to infants and the need to love, snuggle, and cuddle a baby never seems to go away from me. But I loved those kids from New York more than I loved the dream, and so over the years, the dream faded into a fond memory as sometimes unfulfilled dreams do.
Then one day, while I was minding my own business, I was approached by two parents who had just found out that their young, teenage daughter was going to have a child in two months. Because of privacy issues, there are some things I cannot divulge, but I can say, that this little girl loved, and I believe, wanted to raise her child very much. But due to other social issues within her home and subsequent family, adoption became her only option.
Now, I had known this girl for a long time. We had a nice relationship and I already loved her, which made thinking of adopting her baby much easier. However, her family, on both sides, had dramatic issues in their gene pool, which I must admit, scared the stink out of both Tim and I.
We kept waffling back and forth, trying to decide if adopting this child with all of her family ramifications would work for us. I mean, we had a great thing going with the kids we already had. Everyone was happy and healthy and for the most part, we had overcome any major obstacles that we had been faced with. So, we decided through much prayer and deliberating that we would not adopt this child. We had not told the family, but as far as I knew, that was mine and Tim's joint amiable decision.
Then one day as I sat typing in the den, Tim came to me. He was serious and quiet, and when I looked up at him, he had tears in his eyes. He turned my chair to face him, got down an bended knee, and hoarsely uttered, "Kari, I watched Jeff play basketball tonight. I watched him score, steal, and win. I watched him have the time of his life. He would be no where without us, you know he wouldn't. If we do not take this baby, we are negating everything that we have taught our children about adoption. WE have to take it, please, we have too!" And he stayed on the knee and just stared deep into my eyes.
And without hesitation, because I had wanted this child all along I answered him.."Okay, okay, I've been feeling the same way. I think that you are right. This baby is supposed to be a part of this family....I guess we are going to be new old parents?" I gave him a huge hug and he spun me around, okay maybe he just lifted me a little, but the effect was still the same.
And so, we began the preparations. We bought things, borrowed things, and I sewed things, all for a little bundle scheduled to come into our lives in just a few short weeks.
It was decided that this would be a verbal open adoption. We made a bedroom for the birth mother so that she could come and stay anytime she wanted. We also offered to take guardianship of her and help her raise this baby on her own, but her strong family ties forbade it. They were not willing to assist her in raising this child. She would be Mommy and I would be Momma. It was different and very unconventional, but I believe  that a child can never get enough love. And because this little girl had such a kind gentle spirit, I knew sharing motherhood with her would only be a blessing.
To say this was the hardest adoption we had ever experienced would be a real accurate description of the truth. There were family fights from the birth mother's family. Trouble, at first, with the biological father. Many financial, legal, and social ramifications. Yet in those short weeks, she has persevered, and clung to this adoption idea. Until one day....
It was a beautiful spring day, not too cold, not too hot, and there was a soft breeze. I remember the weather because the birth mother and I were standing on the soccer field watching Tim coach soccer. I had been sensing a reluctance on her part to get too intimate with me and so I knew something was up, but I just had no idea what. "Kari, I can't do this. I really love my baby and I cannot give it up...I just can't...".
I looked at her in unbelief. Was she crazy? She was only fourteen years old. How did she think she was going to raise this baby? Oh my word, I have a houseful of kids expecting this baby, baby stuff everywhere, and I am in love with being this child's mother. Was she completely insane? "And Sweetie, just how do you think that you're going to this?" I carefully and quietly asked her as I stared out to the field.
"Oh", she said in a happy childlike voice, "I'm gonna put all of it's stuff with my stuff in the trailer with my folks. It'll be so cool!" She was all skipping full of joy, almost dancing with her little childlike plans.
"Okay, so who is going to watch the baby while you're at school? And when are you going to sleep if you're up all night and gone to school in the day And who is going to buy diapers and clothes and all the things babies need?" I asked, trying to stay cool and calm, but reeling inside at the thought of losing this child now.
She looked distant and said,"Oh, I dunno, but I'm pretty sure that it'll be okay. Ya, know, really neat!" She just stood there whimsically looking away.
What could I do? This was her child. This was her decision to make. But I was crushed. Really crushed. I started to think I was going to throw up and I began to tear up and shake. And I walked away from her. I couldn't speak. I couldn't reason, heck, I could barely even function.
I went straight o Tim and took his hand. "She's changed her mind..," I began crying.
"What...what the heck?" he looked over at her as she just stood staring at the kids and holding her belly.
"She's changed her mind. She says she's gonna raise the baby herself in that small trailer bedroom. Her parents won't even support her, " I choked back a sob. "I gotta get outta here and leave for awhile." I began to get ill. "Just take her to the house, get all of her stuff for her and the baby and take her home...just take her home... we gotta let her do this...she's crazy, but we can't take her baby...she's gotta want us to have it..."
"Okay, okay,...you go and I'll take care of this...." Tim watched as I left. He was dumbfounded.
"And Tim, tell her I love her..." I said looking back at him and I ran to the car.

Where would I go and who would I talk to? I went to my sister's and after a pretty disastrous conversation that was about how this was probably for the best, I hysterically left. Didn't anyone get this? What the heck? I was losing another baby. A baby I didn't even initially want. I was losing my dream again. Once again, God asked me to do the impossible. I reluctantly obeyed. But now without warning the rug was being pulled out from underneath me. What was I going to do?
I went to the only other place I knew to go and that was the church. I quietly walked into the sanctuary and sat down and sobbed. I sobbed forever. I prayed. I pleaded. I begged. I sassed. I bawled. I sat. And finally, I looked up at Him and said, "I have done everything that you've ever asked of me. Everything! I have married a man that I knew was dying. I nursed my mother to her death. I've adopted six children. I attend church every time I can. I even embraced this mother, this child, and this whole mess of a dramatic family. And now? Now you take it away from me? I'm done with You. Done. I'll raise my children in a Christian home. I'll obey Your rules. But don't ever, EVER, ask anything of me again. I won't do it. I'm done with this!" And I marched my proud, little self right out into the street and meandered towards my car.
Just when I went to reach the handle, I heard a voice as quiet, but stern as can be, "You wait right here Abraham. I told you to lay Isaac down on that alter. Lay him down. If you will obey me and lay him down, I will take care of this. You stop worrying about this baby and worry about it's mother. She's the one in trouble now. Your job is this mother, and mine is her baby..." I looked around to see if anyone had heard this or could see me. Nope...it was just me and God.
I got in my car and sat down. What did this mean? Was I insane. Surely I was insane. I started to drive home. I couldn't tell anyone about this. Who'd believe this. I'd had encounters with God before, but nothing like this. Yikes!
When I got home I went straight into a room unnoticed. What could I do? I had all this emotion piled in my head.  So I called a very dear friend to tell her about the baby's birth mother's decision."Don't give up. This is not over. This baby is supposed to be your baby. It will be your greatest blessing. Kari, can you deny that this baby's spirit is in your heart?" I knew I could not. I loved that baby with all my being, with every fiber in me. So we prayed together about the situation. Actually, she prayed and I listened. Then, we said we loved each other and hung up.
Tim was there waiting in the kitchen and all her stuff was gone. I began to cry just as the phone rang. It was our birth mother changing her mind. She said she was wrong. She said that there had been constant fighting in the hours since she had been home.She said that she was just wishing things could be different and that she loved her baby so much. She wanted us to come and get the baby's things and still adopt it.  "I will take care of this. You stop worrying about this baby and worry about it's mother. She's the one in trouble now. Your job is this mother, and mine is her baby...".  But Tim and I talked it over and told her to wait a week or so and make sure that adoption was truly what she wanted. And so that's how we left it. 
Ten days later she was back into our home spending the night, arranging the baby's things, and visiting when she went into labor. Her labor turned into a C-section and with her dad by her side, she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, Katie-Grace Danielle. It was the name we collaborated on together.
The hospital stay was horrid. The family was yelling and fighting all the time. The parents especially nitpicking and berating Katce's mommy. The nurses, doctors, and even staff were worried. No one took care of Katce or changed her except me and the hospital staff. The birth mother had a bed for me in the room with her and the nurses had a crying room for me down the hall. There was still a real chance she could change her mind again and we had to allow for that. And it was so hard to watch one so young, make such a huge decision. It broke my heart because I loved that birth mother so fiercely and wanted to adopt her also.
"Are you sure? Really sure this is what you want to do? If it's not, you tell me now and I'll walk away. Just give me a couple of weeks to get it together and I'll come and help." I asked her as we were preparing to leave the hospital.
She held her little girl in her arms, and I choked up.The nurse began to have tears running down her cheeks as she held tight to the wheelchair. "Yes," she whispered, "I cannot raise her with them. I just can't."
"Then come stay with me. We'll fight for custody and raise the both of you..." I told her as she started to waiver.
"No, I want to be with my dad, and I want you to have her...I can't raise her with them" and she placed that baby in my arms and she sucked up her tears, forced a smile on her face, and told the nurse she was ready.
We followed her to the car and she got in and with her childlike innocence, she waved "Good-bye"- good-bye to us and to her child. And at that moment and in that instance, a HERO was born in our hearts.
As we took our little girl home and placed her in her cradle, both saying a prayer for the little girl we had lost that day and for the little girl we won....