One last, last post...

I don't have a problem. I can quit any time.....

But this one is funny! I will forget it, if I don't post it now. **Scroll down for an updated pic of the babe**

We've packed up all of Marina's baby dolls but one. She is quite bereft. And she isn't letting Lucy out of her sight, I can tell you. She managed to pilfer one baby bottle from being packed away, as well. She was giving Lucy her bottle while I sorted items on the couch.

Marina: Lucy is hungry. I'm feeding her.
Me: Yes, you take such good care of your babies.
Marina: She is drinking milk from her bottle.

[Now, as I continue, I just want to go on record that I am not a breastfeeding freak. I didn't nurse any of my kids past a year (though I don't see anything wrong with that). Marina never had a drop of breastmilk herself and she is healthy as a horse. But I do firmly feel that breastmilk is the best food for babies, and I want to do everything I can to make sure my grandchildren have the best chance at getting the best. I've always encouraged the girls to "nurse" their babies when it comes up. Does that make me wierd??!! It is not like we talk about it all the time. We've actually only discussed it twice since Cara came home. The conversation I noted earlier and this one. When Ian and Randy were infants, first Abby and then Marina could regurlarly be seen lifting their shirts to give a dolly a little snack. Too cute!! Lately though, all they've been getting is the old plastic nipple (like Cara)]

I'm always curious to know--her play is a good inidicator of where we are with processing the whole birth and adopted thing--so I asked, "Did Lucy come out of your tummy, or did you adopt her?"

Marina: pausing a moment to consider She came out of my tummy.
Me: Oh, then you should give her milk from your breast. That is the kind of milk babies like best.
Marina: lifting her shirt and studying her teensies, then looking up at me doubtfully Mommy. pounting now with her finger at my chest. You have big milks. I only have little milks.

Just Can't Resist...

Posting a picture of Cara. Her looks are changing so fast, if I don't post until we are moved into our new home, you won't even recognize her. She is rounding out very well. Even her little stick arms and legs are getting chunkier. She can focus on our faces now, as you can see, and today she started grasping her baby keys. Yes, she is awake more, but oh, so cute! I think I would already be done packing if I didn't take so many Cara breaks.

Over and Out

This will be my final post on this blog, except to give you my new address. *Sniff, sniff* We are moving. As this chapter of our lives comes to a close and we relocate, I think it appropriate to "relocate" in blogland.
I referenced this before, but right after the master's amputation, he felt conviction to return to the pastorate. Maybe he feared God would take the other leg? One was enough. He sent out four resumes, and after a LOOOONG process, he was called on Sunday to a congregation in East Texas. On Sunday morning, when we were explaining to the children what to expect from the day, I told Abby that Daddy would preach and the church would vote to make them their pastor or not.
"So, they will listen to Daddy and then make a decision?"
"Yep"
"I hope they are not too picky."
But despite Abby's lack of confidence, the church voted (93 for, 2 against) to call him.
The master is on cloud nine. He would be if the church was in Zimbabwe, but added to his bliss of being in the pulpit, is a return to his home turf--his best friend since childhood and his family. The transition will be made easier for the older children, as we will be close to our old home town, and they already have special friends there. I have a few friends I will enjoy being closer to, as well. I'm sad to be moving further away from my parents, but three hours is much better than Zimbabwe, huh, Mom? I think we are going to a good church, and a good fit for our family.
I have SO much to get done. I started packing last week. A little presumptuous, perhaps, but I'm glad I did. It's still a massive task, even a week into it. I have no self control when it comes to blogging, so I'm going to have to go cold turkey for the next two weeks. I'm going to miss all of you!!! Be good, and I'll see you two (maybe three) weeks!

Enquiring Minds?

I have come to the decision that my blog buddies are the most uncurious folks on the planet. It might be that you just have alot more tact than I do. Hey, ya'll are a classy bunch of ladies! Perhaps you are simply tired of hearing about this adoption already. Or, it could be that most of you have HUGE, life-changing stuff you are dealing with at present. As a matter of fact, I have some of that going on, too. But since, at the moment, we are stuck in limbo, with no idea IF or WHEN those events may occur, there is no sense blogging about it. So in the interest of keeping this blog going, I will address some questions that have been posed to us in the past few weeks by people in the real world.

1. Closed or Open? or Have you heard from the (birth) mom?

As it stands now, I guess you would say that our adoption is closed. C.C. walked out of the hospital the next day after we arrived. She went right back out on the streets and back to her former lifestyle, despite our urging and our agency's offer to relocate and enter a rehab program. She talked as though she wanted that as well, but in the end the pull of her addictions were too strong. It breaks my heart. Even now, I am crying over her life. I do not--and she does not--believe she will live much longer. I don't look for her to contact our agency again, but if she should, the door will be open on our end. I serve a miracle working God. That has never been more evident to me than in this adoption process. C.C. herself described her life as being in a deep, dark, pit that she could not climb out of. If Christ should work a miracle in her and rescue her out of that pit, no one on earth will rejoice more than the master and I.
P.S. on this question: I am the mom!

2. On the lighter side, here is one that has been posed to us each time we have added a child since Abby: Are you done?

We are done....for now. I look around and our family seems pretty complete to me. Three boys, three girls. But it has felt that way five times before. We've always answered this question--and we hear it frequently--with, "We want eight. Because eight is enough." And from those folks old enough to remember the t.v. show, we get a chuckle, and the conversation moves on. We don't know what the Lord has in store for us. Maybe six. Maybe seven (but I'm not too keen on odd numbers). Maybe eight. We'll see. But for now, we're good.
K often asks us if we will be like the family in Arkansas--with 15 (or is it 16? 17?) kids. I feel I can answer that with a confident, blanket, unqualified, "NO!"

3. What about the (birth) father?

The birth father is unknown. In compliance with Texas law, the agency will run an add in the local paper where Cara was born, but it is almost unheard of that anyone steps forward to be tested in these cases. We are not in the least bit worried that the adoption is at risk.

4. Why not international? and How did you/why did you get this baby?

In and of itself, this question tickles me, because when we were adopting Marina, we got: Why not domestic? I've already posted about why we pursued domestic, and how we were matched with Cara, so I won't go into that. I'm adding these questions because of the way in which they have been asked. This question has been posed to me twice since we brought Cara home and both times in a tone of disapproval. In both instances, the person knew of someone (either friend or family member) who had been trying for years to get pregnant and/or adopt domestically with no success. Most people have no clue as to how complicated, expensive, and difficult an international adoption is. They've seen the news broadcasts showing rows and rows of babies in cribs, and they think you just fly over there and pick one up. They perceive that there is a "shortage" of babies available for adoption in the U.S. What they may not know is that there are not near as many white, healthy infants available for adoption as there are people wanting to adopt them. What they definitely do not know (because we are not willing to disclose it to them) is that Cara did not fall into that category. I'm sure that, had any of the other families at our agency been open to a baby with Cara's history, we would never have received that wonderful call. All they see is a beautiful, perfect baby being placed with a couple who have FIVE other children. I'm sure it doesn't seem "fair" to them. Both times, I've answered this question with, "God did it." It is what I believe beyond a shadow of a doubt. She was meant to be in our family. But I'm sure that is cold comfort for someone who has grieved over an empty cradle for years. Since you all are the most gracious, tactful people I know, maybe you have some suggestions for me on this one?

The Big 3-0

This is my first post as a trigenarian. My mom and dad came on Saturday and prepared a YUM-EE meal. To top off Mom's brownies, the master brought Blue Bell into my home. Sinfull stuff. And I ate WAY too much. Around our bowls that night, Abby asked, "So, mom, how old are you?"

"Until Tuesday, I'll be 29. Then I will be 30."

"Thirrrrrr-teeeee! WOW!" Coming around the table, she put her hand on my shoulder sympathetically, "You better enjoy these last few days."

Old Posts

This is one of those promised posts from the time Cara was in the neonatal ICU.

July 1, 2008
What an emotional day! Full of highs and lows. I'm exhausted, but want to make a record of our journey, before too much of it slips away in forgetfulness. I feel as though I've slipped back into the dark ages by using this pen. It might as well be a feather, and this jar of spinach dip at my elbow, an ink pot.
My first tears of the the day hit at 11:00, when the speech therapist cane in to give Cara her bottle. She is taking two bottle feeds every 24 hours, with the day feed supervised by the speech therapist. Don't ask me why she is called a 'speech' therapist when her sole occupation is feeding infants who are totally inarticulate. Be that as it may, she is very good at what she does. This morning she wanted me to try to give Cara the bottle, while she watched. She was gentle in her suggestions and tips, but there is so much to remember. It is nothing like nursing or even bottle feeding a full term baby. Finally, I asked the speech therapist to take over. I didn't want Cara to miss out on her feeding because I couldn't get it together. As we transferred Cara and she took over the bottle, the tears began to gather. I'm not used to feeling inadequate when it comes to mothering. I'm usually the "experienced mom" who everyone else comes to with their questions and concerns. All of my confidence deserted me as I watched a stranger expertly nourishing that tiny, teeny baby--my baby--while I sat by, useless. The tears dripped down and I dabbed them with a burp rag.
The nurses were very supportive, and assured me that I will improve with time, but is a humbling, frustrating experience, all the same.

*I did get it, too. I feed her now with all the techniques, and don't even think about it. Of course, she is able to take the bottle more normally, as well.

The second round of tears were tears of joy and relief. I had just about given up hope that we would hear the test results today. The neonatalogist was late for rounds and when he finally arrived, went through his whole spill on lipids, and CC's and brain sonograms, etc., and I'm wondering how I will be able to stand another night of this agony? He finally comes to the end and says, "Any questions?"
"Do you think we will get the results from the PCR tomorrow?"
"Oh...." he's checking on his laptop, "We already have that..."
Umm....that was important! Life and death important! What part of, "Please notify us immediately of the test results," was confusing for you? In that split second, I'm sure the world stood still.
"Negative."
"Praise God."
And praise Him and praise Him.

July 2, 2008

Some ground gained today and some lost. Cara came off of isolation. That means that I do not have to suit up in a surgical drape and wear gloves when touching her. She is so soft! Cara was moved from a warmer to a crib. I can now dress her. The only problem is, I didn't bring any of her already substantial wardrobe. What was I thinking? The nurses put her in a terribly ugly wrap--complete with hospital stamp. It did nothing for her. So I walked over to the resale shop (run by the hospital volunteer auxiliary) and bought the only preemie onesie they had. It may not like much, but it is a huge improvement.
And the bad news: Cara is still losing weight. It is very discouraging. Tomorrow, I'm not going to hold her at all, in case the movement from bed to arms and back again is causing her to expend more calories.

* I wasn't able to follow through with that. I just couldn't help picking her up! She needed her Mommy snuggles. The next day, the doctors finally listened to reason and switched her to breast milk, and she did wonderfully after that.

New Cara Pic and Water Park

O.K., I know you are all dying for some updated picture of the babe...so here you go. She weighed in yesterday at six pounds five ounces. Still sleeping for most of the day. I've been laying in wait with my camera all afternoon, so that I could catch her with her eyes open. I'm anxious for the point when we can really interact with her, but I know when it comes, a part (the harried mother of six part) of me will miss this sleep-around-the-clock stage.

And since this blog has been rather Cara heavy of late, I've included some snapshots of our trip to the water playground this morning. Big fun!

A Good Call Afterall

As many of you may remember, we started looking into our second adoption about a year and half ago. We began with contacting our old agency. They were anything but encouraging about proceeding with another adoption. In our dialogue, they indicated that they believed adding to our family--and thereby displacing Marina--would only be a detriment to the stability of our home and a serious setback for Marina. Once again, thinking back on that exchange, I have to wonder, what did they expected us to do with Randy? Sell him to the down river gypsies? Lock him in a closet for eighteen years? Make an adoption plan for our one year old? Ha. Ha. With B____ serving as the placement agency, no doubt. I mean, really people, that ship had sailed.

We moved adoption to the back burner. Not because of their ludicrous objection, but since we would obviously not be using them again, there was no need to rush. Any psychological damage to Marina by her "displacement" had already been done by the birth of her of little brother. And both the master and I were convinced that having another child join our family through adoption would actually benefit Marina.

The preliminary findings are in: we were right. Cara joining our family has already been the impetus for many positive adoption conversations. Marina is making connections to her adoption story as never before. She is able to compare and contrast her story with Cara's. And this is a child for whom connections do not come easy! If she were a cartoon character, we could pencil in a light bulb right over her head. Marina has been able to see for herself our complete joy, excitement, and acceptance for a baby sister that, "did not grow in Mommy's belly."

Tuesday morning, I was letting Cara "nurse," while her bottle warmed. Abby and Marina came in.

Marina: Mom, what are you doing?

Abby: as though highly knowledgeable on this subject She is feeding Baby Cara. Don't you remember? That is how she fed Randy. Babies drink their mommy's milk.

Me: Actually, Cara is not drinking any milk.

Abby: Why?

Marina: She is not hungry?

Me: No, she is hungry. In just a minute, I will feed her a bottle. I can't give her milk from my breasts, because I did not give birth to her.

Abby: Did I drink breastmilk? *Not sure why she asked this, because she knows that she did. *

Me: Yes

Marina: Did I?

Me: No, you were much older when you came home, and you drank milk from a bottle. Like Cara.

Marina: putting her hand, oh, so softly, on Cara's belly, and sighing contentedly Like me. Cara is adopted. Like me.

And, looking up into my eyes, she smiled.

I think we did the right thing.

Cara Comes Home

*UPDATE* Dinner arrived fifteen minutes later from the church. Pot roast and potatoes and carrots. Fresh from the garden green beans. Hot rolls and rice and gravy. I do not know how people survive in this world without a church family.
Cari, Ian is not displeased with his new sister. In this picture, he was just getting over being severely scolded. I was bent over the baby's diaper bag when he crouched down right behind me and when I turned, I fell over him. I almost couldn't right myself and would have fallen flat on my face with the baby. It was a near miss.

After a VERY long day yesterday, Cara came home. I was so anxious all morning at the children's hospital--fearful that something was going to fall through at the last minute. Her temperature would rise (the medical angle), or some form would need a certain stamp (the legal angle), but things fell into place and our plane arrived right on schedule. One neonatalogist (who had not seen Cara until yesterday) tried to give me a hard time about remaining in the hospital "a few more days to a week" for them to switch her off of breast milk and make sure she could tolerate the new formula.


"But she has a prescription for donor milk from the state milk bank."


"But in my experience those arrangements rarely work out. There is much red tape, and then, the parents must consistently defrost and prepare the milk. And since she is strong and gaining weight, one could say she does not need the breastmilk."


Well, his experience must not include any headstrong cajuns. And by this point, I was about ready to throttle the next doctor who told me that, "babies do not need breastmilk." Have these men not read the American Journal of Pediatric Medicine? Where have they had their heads buried for the last twenty years of medical research? Could it be that she is strong and gaining weight BECAUSE she is getting breastmilk?


Ugh. I told him clearly and firmly that the last two neonatalogists who had been on rounds--and had treated Cara for the last three weeks--did not share his concern and had both assured me that we could be discharged on Monday. I had already purchased our tickets home. She was maintaining her temperature and taking her feeds. I had every intention of continuing the breastmilk--was already having a case FedExed to my home--for as long as the milk bank would issue it to her. And even if the ground opened up and swallowed Austin tomorrow (which really wouldn't surprise me), I was certain my pediatrician could make recommendations for a substitute formula and monitor her tolerance of it. WE WERE GOING HOME.


He acquiesced.


Cara loved riding in the sling all warm and cozy on the flight home. The master and all the kids and Nana and Papa were waiting for us. It felt so good to hug them all. We drove over to our agency to sign our placement papers. Denise took our first family photograph that you see here. Then it was home again, home again, jiggety jig.


We have had a rather laid back first day. Cara is in her bouncy seat, sucking on her binky, and the older kids are outside in the backyard playing. If only I could tell you dinner was cooked!

Thank You Ronald McDonald

Praise be! The Ronald McDonald House does not block blogger. Now you will be able to get up to the minute updates on Cara. Wish I had figured that out three days ago when I took up residence here. Unfortunately, my words will have to paint a picture, because I'm not able to load pictures.
Cara is doing well. I finally convinced the doctors to use donor breast milk, so she is now sucking down liquid gold every three hours. She is taking five out of her eight feedings in a bottle and they are putting the rest down the tube. I'm really hoping for six out of eight tomorrow....that will put us at 8 of 8 for Friday or Saturday and then 24 hours of making sure that she can maintain that, then the tube comes out, and we come home on Monday? Hoping, hoping, hoping for that. Is my desperation coming across?
I'm ready to get her (and me too) home. I miss the master and my babies, and want to get them all under one roof.

Some Cara Cuteness

And now for a little shot of sweetness.

Part Two-The Call

The rest of that day passed in a fog. I hope all the daycare children were properly cared for. That evening we went to VBS. I taught the 3-4 year olds. Again, I pray whatever instruction proceeded from my mouth was sound and Biblical. I have no recollection. We didn't say anything to anyone about our big news. We knew it could all fall apart in a moment, and we didn't want to have to face a hundred questions of, "I thought you two were getting a baby!" The one exception was our pastor. Since the master was VBS director, we thought we should give him the heads up that we may be called away for the rest of the week. Ironically, he tried to talk the master out of the adoption. If he had been concerned about our ability to offer her a good life, I might have been o.k. with it. But he didn't seem to have any hesitations on that score. His main argument was that having a baby would be an inconvenience to us and may have health problems. She could cost money. ALL of his advice was worldly in nature. I'm glad I was not there. My alter ego--Sister Ethyl--may have jumped down his throat with a hundred different verses. But that wouldn't have been respectful to my under-shepperd. It is my hope that the Holy Spirit will change his heart when he sees that we do not approach parenthood as a burden or a cross that we must bear. We are both filled with joy and feel so blessed to be her mommy and daddy. We feel as though we have won the lottery.
After VBS, we came home and sent the children immediately to bed. Then we get a call from Denise. The birthmom (I'm going to refer to her as C.C.) wants to speak with us. Whaaa.......I was not ready for that, and extremely nervous, but, "Sure. Put her on." She was pretty out of it--a combination of being on pain meds and off crack--but she asked us questions like where we were from, and what kind of things we liked to do on the weekend, and why we wanted another kid. I was confused because all of that information was in the book right there in front of her. Later, Denise admitted that she didn't think that C.C. could focus on the book long enough to read it. A few minutes into the conversation, C.C. fell asleep mid-sentence.
Denise came back on and said that C.C. liked our profile, but she still wanted to meet with the other agency and we needed to support her in that decision. And we did. Even more than we wanted that baby (and we wanted her a whole, whole bunch), we wanted her to have peace that she was doing the right thing for her baby. The other agency would be there at 10:00. She should know by eleven if C.C. was going to choose us or go with the other agency.
As you can imagine, I didn't sleep much that night. And I went through the motions of daycare the next morning. After fielding a few jump-the-gun calls from Mom and the master (that probably shaved a good five years off my life expectancy--thanks alot you two), I got THE call at noon. She picked us!
I whispered a, "Thank you, God" and started shouting to the kids that they had a baby sister. Anyone who thinks that children in large families resent the introduction of a new member or in some way become bored or calloused to the event, should have been in my living room. There were squeals and shouts, hand-stands and back springs, and about a million questions.
"When can we see her?!"
"When will she come home?!"
"What will we name her?!"
The noise was so deafening that Denise had to hold the phone away from her ear. Which turned out to be a good thing. Later, we learned that when she pulled the phone away, C.C. was able to hear our celebration. She still had doubts about her decision, thinking that we were adopting Cara because we felt sorry for her. She didn't want her baby to be adopted out of pity. Our jubilation at the news went a long way toward giving her peace. She asked Denise for the phone. I thanked her over and over again. She seemed at a loss for words. She wanted to thank me. She said she thought we would give her baby a good Christian home.
I promised her we would be there as soon as possible, and when I hung up the phone, I called the master and started throwing clothes in the suitcase.

Long, Long Post--Part One

I am so sorry to have kept all of you in the dark for the past week and a half. I attempted to fill you in last week, but the children's hospital where Baby Cara is, does not allow social/networking websites on their complementary parent-use computers (which begs the question--What good are they?!) Oh, how I longed for a lap top! A few nights, I tried to scribble a log, and will eventually load those posts here, but life is super crazy right now. I'm going to have to play catch-up.
Debbie mentioned that our announcement was a surprise because she thought we were on hold with our agency. Well, we were. We never called our agency and told them to start showing our profile again. First, we were waiting for the master's prosthesis. Then, we were waiting for our tax return and stimulus check. Then the master comes home one evening and says that he is ready to go back in to the pastorate. OooooKaaaaaay....he sends out resumes to different churches all over the state. Now we may be moving? Everything in our life was catty-wumpus, and I couldn't see how an adoption would fit into it. How could I look a birthmother in the eye and say we wanted a fully open adoption, and then take her baby to live hours and hours away? Where we live now is very multi-cultural. Would our next town be? Since we fully expected to adopt an African-American infant, these were important considerations. Would our son or daughter be the only black child in the church? In the neighborhood? In their kindergarten class? I couldn't do that to a kid.
At some point, I resigned to the fact that the adoption was not going to happen even though it hurt (see Worthless post below), and I still felt like someone was missing from our family. We took the money we had been saving for the adoption and paid off our credit cards. I postponed posting that decision, telling the kids, or notifying my agency. Calling them would be admitting to myself that the adoption was really over. I figured they would be sitting around the office one day and someone would say, "Hey, whatever happened to the Su____'s?" and then they would phone, and I would have to be honest with them and ask them to close our file indefinitely.
When the phone rang on Tuesday morning (June 24th) and I heard the voice answer,
"Hi, Jessica, this is Denise from ________," I thought the dreaded call had arrived. My heart sunk to my stomach. But her next words made it go straight through the floor, "We have a baby for you!"
I started to cry. "But we don't...."
"No. Don't start crying. It is going to be all right. We know you were supposed to be on hold, and we know that you do not have the money right now, but this is a God thing. We will work the financial part out later. This is your baby. Now, do you want to hear about her?"
A baby girl born the day before. Caucasian. *Though we now think there is a good probability she is part Hispanic. Just look at that beautiful head full of black hair!* 34 weeks gestation. 4 lbs. 5 0z......
As she went on, I felt transported in time to Marina's referral meeting. Except that one baby was born in Russia, and the other born right here in our home state, it was the same history, exposure, and diagnosis. The hair on my arms stood up. This was our daughter. She couldn't be anyone elses. Nothing about what Denise had to say (and believe me, alot of it wasn't pretty) frightened us, because we had heard it all before.

Later, we would find out that the ladies at the agency had a similar reaction. When they got the call from our birthmother, they had it on speaker phone. Denise talked with the birthmother and Anne jotted down notes. As soon as the phone clicked, they looked at each other, and with the same breath exclaimed, "The Su______!"

Just as we were wrapping up the conversation, she got a call from the birthmother. Now she said that she wanted to interview with another agency in addition to ____. Denise was on her way down there, with our book alone, but the other agency (if they would accept her as a client) would likely bring a prospective family's profile as well. We would be left in the agony of suspense for another 24-hours (read: an eternity). But deep down, it felt so right. A perfect fit. How could she not be ours?
Debbie, if you thought you were surprised, imagine how the master felt, when I called him at work and told him he had a brand-new baby girl!

Introducing Cara Grace!

The long, long post is still coming, but it is late and we've had the most overwhelming 48-hours of our lives. I have just enough energy to post some pictures of our new daughter. Who I'm feeling very lonesome for right now.

WE HAVE A BABY!!!!

Long, long post later....throwing things in the suitcase....we have a baby girl....God is so good!

PLEASE HELP!

O.K., as you can see, I'm trying to get a new blog skin. As in the past, I've begged for help. I've offered to pay, to no avail. I got a great lead on a group that was offering blog templates for donations to orphans in Taiwan and China, but just as I e-mailed them, they closed up shop. AGGHH!!!
So now, I'm trying a new approach. Trying to go it alone. The old saying is, "if you want something done right, do it yourself." But I just want something done, period. I'm not a digital scrapbooker, but I ordered a "By the Sea" e-kit from scrapbook.com, with the graphics I want to use, but I don't know how to layer them. I can only get one at a time up on the blog (seen above the torn paper graphic). Am I missing some software? Or is there a standard program on my computer where I can move, arrange, and drop my graphics, until I get the look I want? If I can possibly avoid HTML, I need to, but if that is the only way to get this done, can someone please direct me to a website that can teach me? I need HTML for dummies.
This is me..on my knees, ready to kiss your little bloggy feet.

Worthless

Growing up, my sisters and I were given many fun, silly nicknames by our dad. We rarely heard from his lips our formal names, but answered instead to, "Jessy-Poosey," "Jenny-Gwen-Gwen," and "KK." Over the years, one specific title emerged which referenced all three: "toot." Different adjectives generally proceeded this appellation--"lazy," "good-for-nothin'," and most frequently, "worthless." Not exactly what most would consider a term of endearment, but for us it was. Always spoken with love. Usually accompanied by a hug, or pat, or a stroke of my head. Delivered by the man who provided for all of my needs and most of my wants. In blatant disregard for the definition of terms, I felt cherished, prized, priceless.
And, strictly speaking, Daddy's choice of nomenclature was dead on. We were a pretty worthless lot. Living alone with four women is not for the faint of heart. He had no partner for jobs that involved plumping, or auto-mechanics, or lawn maintenance. Actually, no help with any chore that might possibly lead to sweat, odor, or residue. A high school athlete himself, he tried repeatedly to interest us in competitive sports, but we liked twirling batons and playing horns. He loved to deer hunt and would have happily included his daughters in his passion. And while he was successful in teaching both me and Jen how to handle a pistol, revolver, and a 22, he ran out of luck when it came to buck rifles. Ouch. Besides, hunting meant sitting in either a sweltering or frigid deer stand dressed in unappealing camo and bathed in Deep Woods Off and fox pee. Count us out.
But no man was more adored. If we declined to traipse out to the berry patch on a hot summer afternoon, we dropped whatever we were doing to bake his favorite cobbler from the dewberries he brought in. Straining the berries and using the juice, just the way he liked it. If Daddy had to brave an early Sunday morning trip to the Dollar Store for panty hose, hairspray, or sanitary napkins, he got to chuckle over the jostling and scrapping over who would sit next to him in the pew. And though he never cheered his own daughter on to victory, he and I didn't miss a single girl's basketball game that spring they went to state. There I was at sixteen--an age when most of my friends loathed, disdained, and/or barely tolerated their fathers--proud as punch to walk in on his arm.
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These past few months have been very difficult for me. In addition to what you have read here, there have been other struggles, both inward and outward that I haven't felt I could post about. Rarely in my life have I experienced such self-doubt, worry, and stress. For the first time in my life, I feel worthless. Of no use to anyone. Not to my friends, my family, my husband, my children, my daycare kids, and most of all to God. I know the thoughts I've been having are not from the Lord, but from the Evil One. I know all the scriptures (but feel free to leave me some in comments as encouragement), and have been saying them over and over to myself when these thoughts come over me; but as I said, this has been an extremely trying time, and I'm still struggling. This feeling of worthlessness settles in my heart like a heavy stone.
I'm so thankful for my silly nickname, "Worthless Toot." I'm thankful for an earthly father who daily reminded me that I was loved immeasurably and independently of anything I could do for him. When the deceiver and condemner hurls his darts at me, and I am absolutely convinced that it is true. I have no value. I am good-for-nothing. I am worthless. I seem to hear the Holy Spirit whisper, "Yes, but you are MY worthless toot," with the familiar tone of love and acceptance. Satan cannot call me anything more than what I've heard my whole life from a loving earthly father. And he cannot dissuade me from the faith that my Father's love must be even greater, stronger, deeper, and more steadfast than my daddy's. His love is not based on what I do. He has chosen to love me:

You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit. John 15:16

See how great a love the father has bestowed on us that we should be called children of God, and such we are. I John 3:1

For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, being justified as a gift by His grace, through the redemption which is in Christ Jesus. Romans 3:23-24

How can I not respond with adoration? Isn't my love what He desires the most?

Three Cheers

New leg! New leg! New leg! The master came home from his appointment in Houston yesterday with a brand spankin' new appendage. Woohoo! He will wear this leg for three months and then he will be fitted for his final prosthesis. He is not supposed to bear full weight on it for a week, so that is why he is still on the crutches in the picture. He is standing straighter than he ever has. After he took it off last night, we put it on the coffee table and just stared at it in wonder. It is a beautiful sight, let me tell you. With only the limited time he is allowed to wear the leg (he slowly has to build up time wearing it, so as not to cause blisters/soars), he can tell he will be able to walk better and with no pain. Whew! Sure am glad this whole ordeal is going to be worth it.

Wedding Pics

The lovely couple! They should be holding hands in this picture. You know, make people think they like each other. ;0) Wasn't her dress BEAUTIFUL??!!

We have here a junior bridesmaid and two precious flower girls. The one on the far left is my niece. You may notice that Marina is missing her hair. That post, my friends, will have to wait for another day. I'm finding my happy place....

These two boys will melt your heart. I love the way they are standing in this picture because the body language says it all. K is such a sweetheart and gentleman. In many ways, a grown man in a boy-size body. Ian is a lover boy and more than a little naughty. Seriously. Ladies, lock up your daughters.

And the other lovely couple. Now you see what I meant about the mamaw forearms. I gotta start lifting weights. I so wish we had these pictures for our profile book. The ones I used for the page of just me and the master were pretty old.

Goin' to the Chapel...

Yep. On Saturday my little sister is getting hitched. She will be joined in holy matrimony by her illustrious brother-in-law (you know him as "the master"), and will be preceded down the aisle by her nieces and myself. I think the two older boys have a job, too, because they have been fitted for tuxes. I'm a little sketchy on the details. What with daycare and vending machines, I haven't been able to play the part of your typical sister of the bride/matron of honor. I do know that I will be wearing a green sleeveless dress that will show off my mamaw upper arms, but will thankfully conceal my permanent post-partem pooch. This wedding will mark the end of my bridesmaid career. I've been a bridesmaid five times and a maid/matron of honor twice. I'm turning in the flowers and hanging up the satin.
Jen will tie the knot in the same week that the master and I mark our ten year anniversary. That seems strange to me. She and I are separated by only 16 months. After a seven year struggle with secondary infertility, my mother gave birth to me. Then--surprise!--six months after, she was pregnant again without even trying. We were each others best playmate, rival, enemy, and friend. For the first 10 years of our lives we were regularly mistaken as twins by outsiders and referred to collectively as "the little girls" by family and friends. When I learned to swim, she learned to swim. When I started piano lessons, she did, too. Mom and Dad bought us both cameros when we turned 16, mine was red, hers was blue. I left for home for college, and two falls later, she followed me to the same university. We've been--more or less--a package deal from the start. So it still strikes me as odd that I beat her down the aisle by a decade. I'm sure there have been moments when she wanted what I have: a home with a loving husband and adorable kiddos (though perhaps not so many). And at times, I've envied her peaceful evenings, single girl wardrobe, and--by virtue of her manlessness--keeping Daddy at her beck and call. They've been good years for both of us, but I'm glad we will soon share the title, "happily married."

Welcome to the club, Sis. 'Bout time you showed up!

Feliz Cinco De Mayo!

Ay caramba! Es muy mono, no?

On Hold

The master's stump still has not healed to the point where he can be fitted for a prostheses--and instead of weeks behind schedule, it looks as though we might be months away. There is one small spot at the side of his stump that will not stop bleeding, and until it does, we are stuck. We have days of discouragement and frustration, but things are becoming more bearable. I definitely don't have any less to do, so it must be everyone's prayers. I'm getting used to the pace and sleeplessness, but I wouldn't say I'm a particularly fun person to be around at present. And just let me find out that you are praying for patience for me!!! I will hunt you down. I don't want patience, I want a prostheses.
We've spoken with our agency and told them to not show our book to any birthmothers until they get the go ahead from us. At this point, I wouldn't even be able to take time out of my week to drive to Houston and pick up a newborn, much less parent one! Though perhaps my current level of sleep deprivation is the Lord's way of preparing me for night time feedings?

Accentuate the Positive

I think the Negative Nelly post has been up on top of my blog for long enough. On to better and brighter things. Like how breathtakingly beautiful my children are!

Setbacks and Breakdowns

The master has had some setbacks in healing, but he had a doctor's appointment today that has hopefully rectified the problem. Within a week he should be able to put on the "shrinker" as they call it in the prosthetic world. Something like an industrial strength pantyhose. He still is experiencing a lot of pain and the meds do not seem to help much. Plus, he doesn't like taking them.
Some of you have asked how I am holding up. Not good. I wish I could say otherwise, but honestly, I've never worked harder or put in longer days in my life. Including the two semesters in college when I held two work/study jobs, took 17 hours, and worked the night shift at a motel.
I think I've found my limit. I've wondered how much I could pull off. Well, I've arrived. Officially pulled into the Too Much station. Running a home, a daycare, and a vending machine business is TOO MUCH. Please pray that the master heals quickly from this point on. This is so horribly selfish, but I need him back on his foot. :0)

Four Easter Sweeties and One Terd

Did you spot the terd? Randy played the starring role as this year's picture spoiler. It is something about that age. Marina didn't even make it in the shot two years ago. And two years before that it was Ian, and two years...
Ah, toddlerhood. Gotta love it. Or do we?

Foot Loose and Fancy Free

I know my title is completely off-color, but I promise, the master would have it no other way. He says he is going to have that phrase etched into his prosthesis. The master came through the surgery fine and is in good spirits. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for your prayers!! Here is how we've spent the last few days:
Thursday night, I had trouble sleeping. The master, on the other hand, slept like a baby--only better.
Friday morning we went to be fingerprinted for the adoption, then headed to the hospital. We were joined by twenty friends and family who came to pray and sit with the master and wait with me while he was in surgery. What a blessing! I was able to stay with him right up until the time they wheeled him into the surgical suite. I was teary eyed. He comforted me. The amputation took one hour and thirty minutes. The surgeon came out and said that everything had gone well, that they were able to take it below the knee, and he thought [the master] would be pleased with the outcome.
I go to weight watchers with the recovery nurse, so she let me come back to be with him. Coming out of anesthesia, he was cracking jokes, "L____, I'm starting to get cold foot about this operation." (Notice that he has already learned her name and managed to retain that information though barely cognizant.) I thought she was going to fall off her stool. Just before leaving recovery, the nurse drew the covers back, and I wasn't ready. I think if it had just been the sight of it it, I would have been o.k. But there was an odor, too. A medical, fleshy, fluid smell wafted up at the same time, and for a moment, I thought I might faint dead away. I managed to make it into the nearest bathroom and after a few deep breaths with my head between my knees I was able to return to his side. I hate that about myself. I hate that I'm such a weenie.
A steady stream of visitors came to his bedside Friday night and Saturday. Then Saturday evening the children came to see him. We had said goodbye to them on Friday morning, so they hadn't seen Daddy. The older three did very well. Ian's matter-of-fact comment was, "Daddy. Your leg is gone." Thanks for the update, son. Marina seemed the most troubled by it. Of course, she probably understood little of our prior explanations of what was about to transpire. She did much better today, offering me this synopsis:
"Daddy is in the hospital. The doctors took off his leg. But it is o.k., 'cause it is his bad leg. Now he will get a NEW leg. And he will run fast, fast, fast. And he will chase us. But he will not catch us. 'Cause we will run FASTER."
He is having some phantom pain, which he finds not only physically uncomfortable, but mentally unsettling as well. It is a strange thing for "toes" to itch and an "ankle" to ache that are gone. The physical therapist gave him a long paper tube and told him to gently tap his stump whenever he feels those sensations. He has to retrain his body to recognize where his leg ends now. Truly, we are fearfully and wonderfully made. Anyway, I heard--several times in the night--light thumping and mutterings, "It's not there. It's not there."
Today, I've been in and out of the hospital. They changed his dressing and removed his drain tube. NOT FUN. But necessary for him to come home--which we hope will be tomorrow. I'm spending the night at the house with the babies and Sunnyside Kids re-opens early in the morning, so goodnight all.

Whew!

Homestudy visit is over!!! Overall, things went well. She arrived thirty minutes early and the problem with that was that we had saved the kitchen floor for the very last, so that it would be sparkling when she arrived at 9:30. At 9:00, when she rang the bell, it was gross. Two of the kids weren't dressed yet, but otherwise, it came off without a hitch. The master's surgery will be on Friday and once he is awake and stable, I think I will be able to breath again.

Leg, Adoption, and Daycare Update

The master will have his amputation the third or fourth week of March. Assuming we don't have to change surgeons. If we do, who knows? There are only two hospitals that we will consider going to in our immediate area. The master likes his surgeon, but if he does not operate in either of those two facilities, we will have to find a new one in Houston. Family and friends are wanting us to go to Houston, regardless. They have little faith in our local hospitals. My way of thinking is that this actually is not a complicated procedure. Drastic? Yes. Complicated? No. Maybe my thinking is skewed by one too many Civil War movies, but seems to me like limbs have been removed for hundreds of years in far worse conditions by far less skilled hands.
We went to our adoption seminar yesterday. Since I am posting this, you know that I told my parents. I wasn't really ready to do that, but she called the house yesterday and found that we had both gone to Houston. She knew we weren't there for the master's leg, so it was either fess up or out and out lie, which I'm not willing to do. You can scroll down to see our adoption journey, so far. I've been saving updates as drafts for months now. Mom took it better than I thought....Dad will probably want to have a porch swing talk when next we meet, but I'll survive. Anyway, seminar went great! Very enlightening interviews with birthmoms, adult adoptees, adoptive parents, etc. There is always the uncomfortable part about dealing with the grief of infertility--when I feel as though our presence in the room must be terribly offensive to everyone else. Our worker will come on March 10th for the final part of our homestudy, and for a few exceptions such as the minor detail of having the master's leg amputated and not being at all certain of where the money will come from....we're good to go.
The last part of my updates brings us to a dark day at Sunnyside. On days like yesterday, when I have to be away, I have a sitter that I pay to come and run the daycare. I've only been gone four times since starting in September. Twice for a few hours in the afternoon for doctor's appointments. Once for the master's appointments in Houston. And yesterday. Guess who showed up? Did you guess: your state inspector? You're very good. She wasn't supposed to come until mid March. I was so sure of it. Oh, it wasn't pretty. Were the children being well taken care of? Yes. Were they safe, clean, and supervised? Yes. Geez, my own kids were here. They were in VERY good hands. But that doesn't matter!!!! Because I have an anal retentive ex-IRS auditor for my inspector. She was rude and ugly (her standard manner) to my substitute and had her so rattled that she couldn't remember anything that I've told her such as:
1)where the first aid kit is
2)the four step sanitation process (which in real life is completely unrealistic to perform, but you have to be able to spout it off to her)
3)the location of my files
She quizzed her on stupid stuff that is not even in the state minimum standards like how old each of the children were. She was supposed to call back today with a list of my "deficiencies," but didn't. But she will. I shudder to think of it. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep sucking up to this woman when what I really want is to tell her where I think she should stick her standards.

Don't Freak Out

Please don't. Take a deep breath....

The master is having his lower left leg amputated.

I couldn't think of a fun way to break that news. Sorry. As many of you know, the master was born with an extremely rare bone disease. For most of his childhood and adolescence, the doctor's at Shriner's Hospital in Shreveport LA did everything they could so that the master could walk. Sixteen surgeries later, he could walk, but his left leg was 1 1/2" shorter, and his ankle was fused--making it impossible to walk without a pronounced limp. Nevertheless, he was done. He walked out of that hospital at 16 and didn't look back.
Five minutes after meeting him, you don't notice the limp. I haven't. I remember our first Thanksgiving in Illinois. The master's grandmother approached me and started talking about how proud they were of their little crippled grandson...about how they never thought he would have any life...and how it was amazing that he was now able to walk. Honestly, I started to scan the community center for who in the world she was talking about. It was only after I followed her gaze to my husband that it clicked. She was talking about him. I just don't think of him as crippled or handicapped.
But lately, I've noticed the limp. Because it is much worse. The master realized that the shin bone of his affected limb was bowing out like never before. And he hurts. How badly he hurts, is hard to say. Because he has always hurt and has an extremely high tolerance for the pain. I'm quite certain the pain he describes as a level three would have me writhing in the bed, praying to die. Finally, he agreed to see an orthopedic surgeon. But that was easier said than done. It took months for Shriner's to dig up his old records...weeks for the surgeon to agree to take the master as a patient and a few more weeks before he could get his appointment.
The surgeon gave him three options:
1)Live with the pain for as long as you can bear it
2) Look into a procedure known as Lizeroff.
3) Amputate
Number three was actually what the master was hoping for. I know that sounds strange, but all of his childhood he watched children (his own roommates) have amputations and get prosthesis, and he couldn't help noticing that what they were left with worked a lot better than what he had. He's tired of hurting.
Monday we went to Houston for two appointments: one with the leading Lizeroff expert and one with a prosthetic company. The Lizeroff doctor definitely did not sell us on the procedure. It is an agonizing, drawn out process in which the bone is broken and then a halo is set on the outside of the bone to prevent healing. Infection rates are high. Success rates low. And the expert didn't seem to think that he was a good candidate for success. He told us he would not be able to gain any length (even if the procedure was successful). He couldn't do anything about the ankle. In another 10 to 15 years, the bone might be right back where it is now: horribly twisted and bowed. But if we wanted to give it a try, we should get a MRI and schedule surgery. Uh, thanks, but no thanks.
The master is actually excited. He will be able to run for the first time in his life. He will be able to walk into a Payless and buy a pair of shoes. A pair of tennis shoes! He will be able to sit down at a table without looking to see if he has clearance to swing his leg in and out.
At first, I jumped on the giddy wagon, too. I'm coming down from that. Something of the reality of that word--amputation--is sinking in now. They are going to cut off my husband's leg. I guess that is a heavy thing. But it's our best option. So please pray for us.

A Late Valentine's Post

The Sunnyside Kids did a coloring sheet and on the back I wrote their responses to two questions: 1) Why do you love Daddy? 2) Why do you love Mommy?
Here are Marina's too cute responses

Why do you love Daddy?

"Because he fights with us." (She means he 'wrestles' with them)
"Because he goes to work."
"Because he comes back home."

Excellent reasons, baby girl! Especially the last two. They're tops on my list, as well. I held my breath for the next one. But she came through for me. She really does love me.

Why do you love Mommy?

"Because you cook us dinner."
"Because you take care of babies."
"Because you take me outside."

First Grandbaby

Introducing my first grandchild--K's 'Mike' (AKA 'Floppy Sock') His class is studying measurement and as part of the unit, they each brought bags of rice equal to their own birthweight--in K's case a whopping 9 lbs. 4 0z. The rice was funneled into socks to create rice "babies." They have to care for the rice babies all week, and will receive a grade on Friday based on how clean and well kept their baby is. We did a similar assignment with sacks of flour when I was in school--only it was home economics in the 11th grade. I'm not sure what the social implications are for giving this assignment to eight and nine year olds, or what child care has to do with mastering measurement concepts, but....
At first, K was so proud to have the largest baby of third grade. Later, he decided it was a dubious distinction. He came dragging up the walk, the baby cradled in his arms:
K: Hey, Mom. My arms hurt from carrying Mike-Floppy-Sock. You have no idea how heavy he is.
Oh, no. I wouldn't know anything about that.
I offered to enroll Mike in my daycare. Provided K pay the $85 tuition for infants under 18 months. He decided to pass. It is just as well. I'm already at my maximum capacity. Of course, if the state licensing rep came by, I could stick Mike in the closet. All kidding aside, K takes very good care of his rice baby....thinking of things that I'm sure I would have had no clue about at his age. He retold this conversation from school:
Classmate: Why do you call your baby, "Floppy Sock?"
K: Um. Because it's a sock.
Classmate: Still, you should give it a real baby name. Then it would be like a real baby.
K: Uh, no, it wouldn't. Real babies cry. And poop. And you have to feed them every four hours. A sock is NOTHING like that.
Classmate: You should call him, 'Mike.'
K: O.K., if it makes you happy.
At home, though, he got more into it--asking to dress Mike from the newborn clothes in the shed. And strapping him into a bouncy seat. At one point, he shouted to me from the living room:
K: exasperated MOM! I've got baby trouble in here. M______[8 month old Sunnyside Kid] is trying to eat the CD's and Randy is playing with the radio knobs and I can't do anything about it, because I've got Mike in my arms...." It was his first Calgon-take-me-away moment.
He let Abby babysit for a few minutes while he looked for newborn clothes. She was holding him (properly, with head supported) and cooing at him, saying, "Hello, Mike. I'm your Nana."
Me: No. I'm his nana.
Abby: Then what am I? Oh! I'm his Aunt.
Me: Yes, you are his dad's sister, so you are his aunt.
Abby: Then who is the birthmom?
At this point, I don't really care if K completely flunks the assignment. The comic relief the rice filled sock has brought to our home is priceless. If you have the winter doldrums, you should buy a 10 pound sack of rice and fill an extra large sport sock, call it a baby, and give it to your kids. Talk about some cheap fun!
But the best of them all, was when K came in to the kitchen and with all seriousness stated, "There is just one thing that really dissappoints me." Wondering what on earth could have upset him, the master and I asked, "What's that?"
"That you weren't there for the birth."
That kid kills me.

On the way to Baby #6

Our Ukranian adoption was over before it began. When the 2008 quotas were released in December stating that only 300 children under the age of six years would be made available for adoption by American families (and 100+ dossiers were already waiting in line), we decided to halt all homestudy preparations.
Last April (during the flair up with our first agency), we had attended an orientation for a domestic adoption agency, and were very impressed. We were there, more or less, to see
1) if it was a reputable agency (my sister was looking into a private adoption at the time and I thought that if nothing else, we would get a good or bad feel about this particular agency)
2) whether any agency would speak with us (our old agency rejected us based on our size)
3) and to see if domestic adoption would be a good fit for us.
Even the master was excited--and that is saying something. We decided that at some point, we definitely wanted to complete an adoption with them. BUT....a part (o.k. a big part) of me was still hoping for one more Eastern Europe adoption. I would have liked for Marina to have someone else in the family who shared a similar birth culture. And our hearts--mine and the master's--are always with children who are waiting in institutions around the world. As the list of agencies with Russian accreditation continued to grow, I sent off for many application packets, but the financial and emotional costs for a Russian adoption seemed even greater now that I knew the obligations and requirements for a domestic adoption.
It is so much cheaper! It is so much easier. One document--the homestudy. One time. That's it. And it is in English. I don't need a translator. The U.S. isn't going to shut down. I won't have to hold my breath for two years. And we will meet and know our child's birthmom. I think I am more excited about that than anything else.
The Ukranian adoption would have been significantly less money (about half) than a Russian adoption, but there was little hope that we would be able to get in under the new quotas. It might even be difficult for 2009. It just seemed stupid to invest thousands of dollars, blood, sweat and tears, "competing" for a "spot" sometime in this decade, when there were children right here in the U.S. needing homes NOW!
After the first of the year, I got back in touch with the Houston agency. On Monday we went for our individual meeting. We will have seminar on February 28th and our homestudy will be March 10th. Doesn't sound like very far away, does it? We will take our birthmom letter and picture book with us to the February seminar. Our homestudy should be written up within a week of the visit, and we could get a call at any time thereafter. I want so badly to post on our adoption, but we haven't told our family--nor do we intend to.

Dinner Conversation

Unison: "Fader, God. Tank you for dis food. Dat you have been given' us in the name of JESUS CHRIST. Amen!"

Sunnyside Kid #1: What is this?

Me: Frito Pie

Sunnyside Kid #1: I have a puppy.

Me: Oh? Is his name Frito?

Sunnyside Kid #1: His name Bob.

Me: O....K...?

Sunnyside Kid #2: Miss Jessca, frito pie hurt my bo-bo.

Me: Use your spoon and it won't get in your bo-bo.

Sunnyside Kid #3: We sing song about stars?

Me: No, we didn't sing a song about stars this morning. Would you like to sing a song about stars?

Sunnyside Kid #3: "Twinkle, Twinkle, little star...."

Unison: "how I wonder what you are--"

Me: Well, I meant later. We can sing about stars later. Right now we need to eat. It is bad manners to sing at the table.

Sunnyside Kid #4: loud belch, "Pease may I be 'scused?"

Me: Yes, you may.


Not sure if I am amused or merely going NUTS.

Sunnyside Kid #5 and Wallpaper Worries

It feels like forever since I posted...though I guess Christmas wasn't too far away, really. It just seems so.

The kids FINALLY went back to school on Tuesday. Not that I don't love 'em, but 10-11 children in my tiny kitchen every day for breakfast, lunch, and snack was a little much. If we stay in this house we are going to HAVE to add on a dining room. Soon. Because I'm thinking I'll go crazy over the summer. Of course, three of my daycare children are teacher's kids, so enrollment may fall off for June and July.

That brings me to another item: You have to help me decide what to do with the boys' room. One of my daycare kids ate the border off my boy's bedroom wall. Yes, ATE. This is the same child who eats pine cones, sand, dirt clods, sticks, dog poo, rocks, and as of Tuesday....a huge hole in Marina's curtains. He is the one who broke the Fisher Price barn, tore up a whole bunch of books (so he could eat the paper), and destroyed two brand new Christmas gifts (so he could chew the plastic coated wires within). I can't count the number of finger sweeps I've performed on that baby. Being the early childhood development specialist I am, I recognize that this is NOT normal behavior. I'm strongly leaning toward a mild form of autism (his social behaviors are off, too). Being the country girl that I am, I can tell you that, "Sumthin' ain't right with that young'un."

As of Tuesday, I gave his mom two weeks notice that she will need to find another place for him to spend his days. Don't worry--I used the professional language, not the country girl equivalent. It is not that he is special needs. It is just that I cannot afford to keep financing his special needs. The curtains were the last straw. Those were nice curtains. Also, I cannot sufficiently serve his special need. This is home care. That means that, while I must take adequate safety precautions (adequate for MOST children), I am not expected to--nor could I possibly--maintain visual surveillance of all children at all times. I'm it. I'm the whole show. So, if it's twenty minutes till lunch, I'm in the kitchen getting the food on the table. I'm NOT in the boys' room. Where Sunnyside Kid #5 is eating wallpaper. I do not know that Sunnyside Kid #5 is chomping down, and therefor, if Sunnyside Kids #1-4 are not in the immediate vicinity, I may not become aware of Sunnyside Kid #5's appetizer of choice. I'm picturing finding Sunnyside Kid #5 dead on my floor with a huge wad of wallpaper (or curtains) lodged in his throat. I'm CPR and first aide certified, but not itching to try my skill any time soon--or ever! I can't have that on my conscience. Having to replace wall paper border is a nuisance. A child is irreplacable and losing one--that was placed in my care--unthinkable. I personally find the number of children crammed into a class in most daycare centers appalling. But, at least it is ONE room. Where the teachers can monitor him minute by minute.

Back to my decorating dilemma. What should I do? I've already checked e-bay for this border and I haven't found any auctions. All of my extra rolls were destroyed in the hurricane. I'm going to have to soak off and remove what remains of the border. Read that last sentence with a pronounced whine. I really loved that border. It went so well with all of our boy furniture. "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth. Do not store up for yourselves....." I did find some cute borders that may work (though not nearly as perfectly!!!) with the exsisting wall color, but then I wonder if I should replace it with something so juvenile since K is nine now (he was 6 and Ian was 2 when we originally papered the bedroom)... But then again, I do run a daycare, and that is where the daycare children play. But they won't always play there. We are hoping to move. Maybe I should just break out the KILZ (it's gonna take buckets to cover the royal blue. Ugh. And double UGH), and repaint with something neutral for the sake of resale? With my luck, if I do that, we'll be stuck in this house for the next twenty years.

And then I wonder if I should replace it with border at all, because what if I get another Sunnyside Kid #5? But, seriously, how often do children that eat wallpaper come along? Some help here? My brain is tired. I'm sorry the picture is so dim. I didn't think to give you a visual until after the sun set. Those are trucks, fire engines, helicopters, cars, taxis and road signs on a perfectly coordinated backgound of light blue with royal blue outlining. Trying to cope with a profound loss here....