if i were less of a slouch i would take a picture of the inside of my refrigerator and post it online.  my refrigerator always reminds me of my mil and it seems like an accurate gauge of my external cool, my pr.

my fridge ranges from clean and organized to messy and messy.  it is not pristine.  it is a off kilter and dusty on top.

i also need to eat better.  i am a stress eater, an emotional eater.

i need more time to squander on my family

this is protestant confession

this is internet graffiti

this is what i would work on if i didnt continue to have futile conversations with the state about the derelict, nay, medieval system behind the scrim of the juvenile system.

just after i wrote the last post M. and S. came in and told me that when they play with their small universe of  toy people they sometimes use the soundtrack of carmina burana.

I laughed and rejoiced at the beautiful invention of their world; no longer weary.

Jesus said, come to me, all you who are weary, and I will give you rest.

Weary is different than tired.  You can be satisfied and tired.  Weary is when you feel like you are giving up.  That’s it, you say, too tired for the exclamation mark.  i give up.

i feel weary.  i often have this feeling, the urge to go along.  with what?

with the social convention surrounding what embarrasses people.  many times a long silence from someone signals their discomfort.  the silence tells me they are embarrassed.

Sometimes I want to speak directly to that silence and retort, do you think this what i want?  i want…

i want

em to know she can tell her story fearlessly

when she tells me she is scared

i know she has reasons to be scared

people do look at you differently when you tell them you are broken

but then, who are they kidding?

we are all broken

memorial stones.

today has been five years since my father’s crash.  i miss him and see him in my children’s faces.

S. tells me about the missing lobe on the left side of the human chest; a space carved out for our hearts.  I know some of my friends are agnostics and atheists, yet I can’t help but see God’s authorship in that missing space.  A place missing only God can fill.

I used to stay awake very late out of fear, now it is grief.  I hate to admit it but the grief stage that resulted in  lack of appetite was more cosmetically useful.  I would not go back. 

I don’t tell the kids about the Chris Rock monologue that haunts me.  He talks about how you know the bad parents because they assert that “at least” they are meeting basic requirements for their childrens’ care.  Food, water, shelter:  all basic.  Protection from sexual abuse was in that list–necessities for all my children.  Yet I failed.

I constantly feel the pressure against that missing place in my chest.  I think we all do except Sea.  He tells me he is better, wills me to believe it.  I never will.  The hole in my chest is there to remind me.

a few years ago i talked to a caseworker about adopting again. i was pregnant with our 6th child and she dismissed my question politely–nope, too many kids.  then-all-hell-broke-loose.  what was i thinking adopting the first time, right? i will never “get over” what happened to us all, especially the children.  still..i read about this lady in Kenya who takes care of 52 kids..crazy, right?

Mel is in the pool amusing herself by humming the shark soundtrack from Jaws.  She stops abruptly and shivers in the water.  Ooh, she says, I was scaring myself…

I have not let her watch Jaws; just told her about the good parts.  She says that sometimes she will be playing a game of ripstick tag at the park and humming Jaws then she will say to herself, we’re gonna need a bigger ripstick.

These stories clearly illustrate that she is the one who should be blogging.

I have a picture in my head of me or my more attractive avatar standing at the edge of a chasm, shouting into it.  I don’t think anyone is listening.  It gives me a freedom to say what I want–after all I am just shouting into the abyss, right?

Still if someone were to listen, I would be afraid to thank the precious handful of people who have held our hands through the terribleness of our story.  I know so many people have more devastating stories, but ours is riven with a shame that makes people (justifiably) uncomfortable.

But I don’t think Lindsey would mind if I said thank you.  I should say it about a thousand times to get the point across.  Thank you not just for friendship, but for listening.  Thank you for the letter that you and H. wrote.  Thank you for being there.

And while I am shouting into the abyss I would like to point out that you are so beautiful with children.  You hear them, your own and others. It is precious to watch you do it, and you are a great gift to me.

so thank you,

i shout

from the edge of the chasm

I found an adoption website with blogs about kids with RAD.  First I was gratetful to not feel so alone, then I thought–where have you been all my life?

Also, after multiple rejections Yahoo! Voices published a poem I wrote!  I am amazed.