Revelation

I've said it before and more than likely I'll say it again:


I love me a bookstore!

While the wee girls were off a visitin' the Bio-Mom, I was left with two hours to kill before their reinvasion...I mean before I had to pick them up. Beloved was too tired, too sore, too whatever, to go to dinner, as we have gotten into the habit of doing on Wednesday nights. All of which left me flying solo WITH MONEY! Huzzah for me!

It’s been literally ages since I trekked over to Powell’s, not the one downtown because I’m afraid to drive downtown, but the one on my side of the world. Delicious Powell’s. Lovely, eclectic Powell’s. It lacks some of the creature comforts of, say, Borders, but than again it also doesn’t have that mega big business feel either. The staff is…different…from the shiny folks who work at the mammoth book mall. They are more bookish. I mean to say, they look like they LOVE them some books and they don’t accost you for “looking” even if you’re there for hours and hours and hours and hours…

Powell’s has old books and new books, rare books, and bulk books, everything a girl who loves books enjoys. So, I toured the history section, voyaged through fiction, took passage through the young adults, and cruised through children’s. I was astounded by the amount of dribble, really, dribble that I found. Then it occurred to me, it’s not them, it’s me.

I’ve become a book snob.

Then another realization struck me (hard in the head): the reason that I am having trouble writing my story is that I keep trying to make my character something she isn’t. She isn’t a classical, Victorian girl and neither is her mother. Their conflict is deep and painful and herbal tea and a good cry isn’t going to solve their problem. Alas, I’ve become trapped by my own prejudice and nearly murdered my tale with my own two hands.

Which led to yet another startling revelation: I may not be a writer for this era. Perhaps I was born too late and missed the opportunity to be Austen or Alcott. Surely, there is no audience for me, for I travel between two worlds. Neither of which wants to be married to the other.

Sarcasm and idiot girl attitude mixed with a love of timeless literature is an uncommon mix.

What’s a wanna be writer girl to do?

Lay down the pen sister, just lay it down.

Buried

We awoke to more snow fall this morning. I love to watch it snow, but I refuse to drive in it. Thankfully, it will probably turn to run-off by 10 this morning. It’s been snowing off and on for days now, which isn’t terribly unusual for this time of year. I simply wish that we’d have one day of white so the girls could play in it. I’d make the traditional homemade Sour-Cream Banana Pancakes and then we could march on toward spring.

The snow seems to have landed squarely on my muse’s head, burying her in its heavy, damp flakes. My story is stalled. Whenever I pull up the file, I find the main character and I staring at each other. She looks at me with strikingly troubled blue eyes. I blink back at her with my brown ones. We don’t know what to say to each other, so we simply sit in silence. Maybe today it will be different.

Our little blonde girls continue to grow at an alarming rate. Z-Monster turned four-years-old on Monday and I am surprised at how much she’s changed since coming to live with us. The thing that truly worries me is her cheerless blue eyes. Looking at photos of her from the past nine months, I noted that her smile seldom reaches her eyes. How incredibly sad.

C is buried in her own pile of misery: writing class, Math, Biology. All of which leaves me to wonder if homeschooling has done her any favors. Have I Ied her down a primrose path which leads to shocking surprises in college? It’s every home educator’s nightmare, the day the children return home to thank you for wrecking their educational lives.

Maybe I should just go back to bed…

Z-Monster's Birthday

Today, aside from being a snow day, is also Z-Monsters 4th birthday. She is a talkative, outgoing, wee girl, with sad blue eyes and very blonde hair. Her favorite food is sugar, or whatever you happen to be eating. Z is scared of men in uniforms, which includes firemen, doctors, policemen, and auto mechanics. She likes to help dry the dishes and she's good at it too!

Z has been in foster care for the last 12 months with a three month stint in foster care back in the summer of 2006. She and her sister, The Destroyer, have been our foster children since May of 07.

Happy Birthday Z-Monster!





Grandpa brought Z home an entire bag of M & M's for her birthday. How many four-year-olds do you know who have a whole bag for themselves? He also brought a bag for The Destroyer. Egad! Talk about your sugar overload!

Snow Day

It doesn't snow very often here, so when it does, we tend to get a bit giddy. Even if it's just a dusting, we pull on the warm clothes & mittens and head out to play. Today's snow was so dry you couldn't pack it to make a snowball and certainly not a snowman. The girls had fun anyway. It struck me, as I snapped away with my camera, that this is the first snow without John home. It's the first of many moments that he will be absent. Makes me kinda sad.










Afterwards we always come in to warm up with either homemade cocoa or pancakes made from scratch (of course). Today, it was cocoa!

Dang It

There are no coffee filters. None. Nada. We are coffee filterless. Dang it.
It’s not that I drink coffee every day; otherwise I would have noticed that we were out of coffee filters, but when I want a cup of coffee, well, I WANT A CUP OF COFFEE. At this point, I have two choices, go without or run down to the little coffee shop down the street.

I should mention that I’m dressed in a gray, long sleeved shirt, topped by an old, raspberry colored sweatshirt. I’ve got blue sweat pants on and white socks, Paris Hilton, I’m not. Because I live in the country I could probably get away with driving down to the little coffee place, dressed as I am. But I’d have to load up the wee girls, both of which are still in their footy sleepers, one of which has a hole in the toe (just noticed that this morning). Their hair isn’t brushed, neither is mine. Dang it.

There is one other option, since I’ve already had my shower, I could throw on a pair of jeans, brush my hair, brush my teeth (?) and wake up the beasty girl so she could watch the wee girls. On second thought, waking the beasty isn’t all that appealing, especially considering I haven’t had any coffee.

Guess I’ll have to settle for green tea. Yum (not). Dang it.

The Z-Monster has talked NON-STOP since 7:10 this morning. Now, one would think that since they did not get a nap yesterday (at mom’s house for the day) and they got home an hour later than normal (Grandpa goofed up and went to our Saturday night drop off location, instead of our Wednesday night location) that they would sleep in. Nope.

Her sister, The Destroyer, is in fine form this morning. She was up at 6:30, a full 15 minutes later than normal. She’s in the midst of potty training. Let me rephrase that, I’m attempting to make her pee somewhere other than her pants. She, in turn, has decided that she hasn’t the time to pee somewhere other than her breeches. Thus we are in the midst of a battle of wills.



I had decided, since she’s returning to her mother in a matter of months, that I’d let it go. In other words, keep her in a diaper and let her mother deal with the problem. After all, she’ll probably regress once she figures out she’s living with “mom” and not “mama”. However, I am sick and tired of diapers. Sick! Of! Them!
She knows where the potty is. She knows what she’s supposed to do. She just won’t.

The only way I know to cure this problem is to put her in big girl undies, ask her every ten to twenty minutes if she has to go, and clean up the puddles any puddles she leaves around the house. I did this thirteen years ago…my children are both house broken. I like them this way. As time passes, I’m starting to like my nearly adult age children more and more.

If one of them actually drove, I would be in Nirvana. After all, I could send C to the store for coffee filters and croissants.



Dang it.

My Beloved sells stuff on Craigslist. Any time he posts it, it sells. I kid you not.
Sunday night, he posted these UGLY pair of JBL speakers. He listed the home phone and told me he didn’t expect a lot of action. Yeah. At 11:50pm the phone rang twice, and then whoever dialed the number decided that midnight was too late to call, so he hung up. Caller ID ratted him out, so we knew when he phoned back the next day.

Monday morning, 8:15, there is a call from someone interested in the speakers. I give him Beloveds cell phone and wash my hands of the matter. The problem is, Beloved didn’t turn on his phone. So, the prospective buyer calls me back, nearly frantic. He REALLY wants these speakers. Four phone calls later, I set an appointment with him for later that night. Geez. They are just speakers dude.

Half an hour later, the phone rings again, it’s Mr. Midnight. I take his number; let him know that he’s had another call on the speakers, but that I’ll pass his name along.

That night, Mr. Frantic comes over and hands Beloved $200.

I can’t tell you the number of times I have listed stuff on Craigslist only to watch the days tick past and the stupid item not sell. Currently, I have a cash register from my business listed there. The price is fair; it is half of what we paid for it and still far below what they are selling for on Amazon. So, why hasn’t it sold? It’s in perfect condition. Perfect!

I received one call on it, with the promise of calling me back to set up a time to come see it. It’s been two days; I don’t think he’s calling back. Today, I received an email asking if I’d lower my price. I countered with another price, not as low as they wanted, but geez people I can’t give it away!

So, here I sit with my cash register, in its original box, with the manual, the video, extra tape. Beloved was kind and shared his wealth, but I’m left wondering why I can’t sell anything on Craigslist.

And in other news…

As heard from the breakfast table this morning:

Monster: Teri had that kinda cereal

Me: Good

Monster: It good cereal

Me: Yep

Monster: Teri sit on the patio with me and eat her cereal

Me: Yep

Monster: Teri nice

Me: Yep

Monster: I like dat cereal

Me: silent

Monster: Can I had that cereal?

Me: No

Monster: Why?

Me: You wanted Life

Monster: I don’t want life. I want dat cereal

Me: Sorry, you’ll have to eat what you asked for

Monster: Teri give me dat cereal afore

Me: I’m sure she did

Monster: What it taste like?

Me: cereal

Monster: Teri like dat cereal

And on and on and on it went. I am not a morning person. Someone shoot me please.

I’d like to work on my story today. I’d like to clean the house. I’d like to take a nap. I'd like to sell my cash register. However, I’m pretty sure the only thing that will be completed today is cleaning the house. Thus far, in the last two weeks, I’ve written a total of four pages. Four. At this rate, it will take me the rest of my natural life to finish it.

Uggh.

Children, Children, Children

J has been back at camp/school since Sunday. We were all a bit disappointed that we didn’t get to spend more time with him over the weekend. I think that is the hardest part of watching your kids grow up and strike out on their own. They develop relationships with others, have commitments, and are living their own life. It’s exactly what we wanted them to do, but it’s sad to realize that you will never be as important as other things in their life. Someone once said to me, “A parent will always love a child; more than a child will love a parent”.

Which, I suppose, is why as you age you become wiser, at least you are supposed to. I now understand why my father nags us all so much about spending time with them, after all, he’s my daddy and I’m his child. Kinda puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?



C is doing well, buried in school work, but that’s pretty much par for the course. I’m hesitating to mention a chemistry class for homeschoolers at the university that starts at the end of the month. She took a genetics course there last year and enjoyed it (got a B!) but I know with the amount of work she’s got this year that she may not want to tackle chemistry just now.

She is proving to be a great writing critique partner. This is probably due to the amount of “style” reading she’s had to do for her writing course. C often sees things that I miss, which is great since self-editing is NOT one of my strong points. It’s fun to listen to her ideas and I wonder if anyone will ever be as enthusiastic about my writing as she is. She’s my biggest fan!



Thursday was “Caseworker Visit Day” so the CW was here in time to see us making our experimental dinner (had to do something with that leftover pork roast!). The Monster told her how she, “Put the leaves (cilantro) in.” CW asked The Monster if she cooks with her mother, to which Monster replied, “No. Mom doesn’t have a counter.” CW looked confused and replied that she did indeed. Monster than explained that, “She would be in Mom’s way.” Hmm…need to make sure I include The Monster in more cooking projects. She loves to help do anything, clean the bathroom, mop the floor, dry dishes, busy hands are happy hands in her case!

CW then asked if I’d been to Mom’s apartment. What? Why would I go there? I mean, we have a fairly good working relationship, but I don’t think we could ever be best friends. Our relationship is only going to grow more awkward as time passes. The girls will start transitioning back at some point (Feb?) and I know The Monster. She’ll do to her mom what she did to me when she first came here: she compared me to the other foster mommy, telling me, “Teri’d let me.” It made me crazy when she’d say that and I know for someone who is insecure and unsure of herself; those words are going to make the Bio-Mom nuts too.

The Destroyer was up at 6. Why? She's been really good all morning, except when she decided, in her sparkly pink shoes, to kick her sister in the head. What can I say, she's two...

About Yesterday's Post

It has been brought to my attention (from someone in my writer's group, if you must know) that I seem to be unloving, unkind, uncaring towards The Destroyer and her partner in crime, The Z-Monster.

Allow me to put your mind at ease. I do care and very deeply too, I might add. If I didn't care, I assure you, they would not be living here. If I was unloving I would have allowed the state to separate them and place Z-Monster in an intake center and put The Destroyer in a brand new foster home, torn from her Aunties & Uncles as well as her biological family.

You may not know what an intake center is, so please allow me to enlighten you. It is a place where they put children who they cannot place in a proper foster home, whether it be for behavioral issue or simply because they do not have an open home. Wouldn't that have been a lovely place for a three-year-old (this last sentence is called sarcasm).

If I was unkind, I wouldn't spend several hours each day drawing pictures, building duplo castles, and taking mucky walks so that their wee minds and bodies are exercised properly. I wouldn't answer the never ending questions or battle the constant bickering that takes place here. I would not provide balanced meals of gruel, beans and rice (more sarcasm).

If you do not understand sarcasm...well, I'm sorry (I'm being sarcastic).

If you do understand sarcasm, have used it within the last 15 minutes or so, than you, my friend, are welcome to snicker and snort your way through my blog.

:P

The Bad Seed

Sunday had the possibility of being a horrible day. We had three (yes, three) children three and under here. That in itself is enough to make any woman over forty scream with terror and run for a martini, sports car, and a six figure salary. Not me, nope. I’m a trooper, I am super woman. I am you, only with a worse wardrobe. I may be shorter, grayer, more prone to facial ticks than you are, but I do bake a mean cookie.

It all began quite calmly that mid-morning Sunday. I’d finished washing the dishes while the little ones played (read: fight) at my feet. It’s easier to watch them if you’re practically stepping on them at every turn. I swabbed down the counter and gathered up the dirty towels and wash clothes and made my way to the laundry room (mere feet from the kitchen). I tossed the towels and gathered a fresh supply, flipped off the light and retraced my steps back to the kitchen.

The Destroyer was quickly (read: racing) her way to the sofa, while The Monster was announcing to all, “The Destroyer has …” (Forgive me for not enlightening you further, but we do have identities to protect.) I quickly (read: raced as if my very life depended on it) traversed the few feet between myself and The Destroyer, lifted her carefully and found the object she’s stolen from a drawer.

I grasped the offending object in one had, while holding the vicious offender in the other. I looked at The Monster, my jaw slack, mind racing. “Thank you! Thank you for tattling!” I exclaimed. Which of course set a new precedent for The Monster to inform us of any and all news, significant or not.

Have you ever had one of those moments that define your life? A turning point? Boys and girls, I experienced one such moment that afternoon. I decided, right then and there, standing in my living room, grasping the squalling Destroyer, “I do not want to parent small children”.

It’s really very simple isn’t it? Small children who have not been born of my body and are the official wards of the state, have no business being raised by me. My hair is turning grayer by the moment, my blood pressure must be dangerously high, and I haven’t had a proper nights sleep since May. What was I thinking?

Of course, it’s been stated, rather vehemently I may add, that I “volunteered for this”. Which is true. In my defense, I had not idea that these two little, blonde, blue-eyed girls brought a demon with them. How could I have known that they are the living embodiment of “The Bad Seed” (movie released September 1956)? I was clueless to the fact that they would not only stamp my intellect into the dirt, but that they would also rip my heart from my chest and EAT IT, laughing gleefully, I might add.

We survived this latest emergency and thankfully there was no trip to the ER. I made a quick survey of anything that could be within The Destroyer’s reach and rearranged everything. The phone call was made to appraise the case worker and on Wednesday I’ll get to tell the Bio-Mom, who will sneer and attempt to make me out to be a danger to her children and an idiot.

I may very well be an idiot. After all I signed up for this special form of abuse.

Last night, as I lay in bed, thinking over the day’s events, I couldn’t help considering all the other possible outcomes. Thank God none of them happened. Believe what you will, but I believe in Guardian angels. Mine must have amazing speed, strength and smarts, because he sure saved my bacon yesterday!

A Night Out

Last evening was a rare treat, the wee girls were avisitin’ with their mammy, our girl was working, and we actually had funds to spend! Away we went to a fun little restaurant called Noodles and Company. It’s a healthy little joint with a wide pasta dishes ranging from Asian to Mediterranean with American thrown in for those less adventurous. For $6.95 you will be treated to your choice of noodle as well as your choice of grilled chicken, beef, shrimp, or tofu or you can have the same, only smaller with soup or salad.



I opted for the Pad Thai with chicken and a Caesar side salad. My beloved settled on the Pesto Cavatappi which he meant to order with chicken, but forgot. For a total of $16.00 we had a lovely, healthy dinner in a quiet atmosphere. The only thing missing was beloved’s chicken and maybe a nice glass of wine.

For those of you in the Portland-Metro area you can find Noodles and Company at Lloyd Center, in the Pearl District, Beaverton, or Hillsboro. You may also visit their website at Noodles.com. Sign up for their noodlegrams and receive coupons…I love me a coupon!

After enjoying our peaceful meal we sauntered over to the local thrift store. You see, I married Second Hand Rose or Dumpster Diver Dan, as I lovingly refer to him. The man, much like his mother, can find a bargain among the weeds. It’s truly amazing to watch him work. I spent my time browsing the books (what else?).

Beloved discovered something he wanted to buy, but felt that the price was too high. He walked away, but the memory of that item lingered with him throughout the night. We then traveled over to Moonstruck Chocolates for a cup of Joe while we waited for the girls to arrive. If you’ve never been there, I recommend it, only make sure to bring your wallet, cause it ain’t cheap.

The coffee was good, a wee bit o’ chocolate satisfied the soul and Beloved continued his verbal meanderings about the item he had left at the thrift store. I finally said, “Go back and get it.” Yet he persisted in saying it the price was set too high. Even after making the brief repairs that it needed, he would only clear $25.00 in resale.

We met with the girls Mom and Grandpa and were informed that Z-Monster had told KK-the Destroyer that she was going to, and I quote, “Whomp your ass”. My eye brows shot up and I looked at Z and said, “Really?!” Mom proceeded to tell me how shocked she was. I assured her that Z has never heard that from. I said, “If she said Jackass, then I’d confess that’s me. I turn into a raging lunatic when I drive and the road seems to be littered with them!” I laughed, she laughed, both eyeing each other.

On the drive home, Beloved told me he thought Mom was just trying to cover her own butt. “She’s probably said that a time or two.” Maybe, but I felt attacked, as if she were blaming me. As I pondered these thoughts, worrying about their implications, I heard Beloved whisper,

“I should have bought them.”

I think he’s addicted.

Observations from the Bookstore

I love me some books. I love the way they feel, the way they look, I even love those old, smelly books that have been abused and neglected by time. Hard back, soft back, cheap paper trade or expensive Italian leather, I love them all.

My second favorite place on earth is a bookstore. I could simply get lost in one; lost forever and I wouldn’t care. In recent years the major store chains have begun adding a coffee shop, such as Starbucks or Seattle’s Best, to their in shop offerings. Comfy, faux leather library style chairs suggest the perfect reading environment for society’s hurry up and wait consumer. It is a virtual paradise of caffeinated beverages and intellectual stimulant. Or it would be if it weren’t for all the noise.

I dropped by my local Borders superstore today after depositing the wee girls with their mother for a court ordered visitation. Saturdays have become one of my favorite days of the week, simply because for an entire eight hours I do not referee any fights, wipe anyone’s nose or behind, and my blood pressure stays at a level 120 over 80. A few hours spent in the womb of a bookstore sounded like the perfect afternoon to me.

The store was crowded, but that’s okay, it meant less sales people to harass me. I browsed the new release section, smirking at some of the titles; Be the Pack Leader: Use Cesar’s Way to Transform Your Dog, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, and who would want to miss, I Am America(And So Can You). I didn’t purchase any of these fascinating, I’m sure, titles, I simply moved on to greener pastures.

See, I had a plan. I knew what I was looking for and planned to do very little browsing and a whole lotta coffee sippin’ and reading in the privacy of my very own faux leather chair by the window. Making my way through the fiction section my plan nearly fell apart as I pulled first one than another title from the shelf. Neither book was on my list, but they looked…interesting. I forced myself to return these treasures to their proper place (don’t you hate people who don’t return the book to the correct section of the shelf?) and moved on.

I wasn’t in search of literary gold, I was in search of a laugh and recently Laurie Notaro makes me laugh. There is just something hysterical about a woman who tells it like it is, be it drunk and thinking she’s hot, to feet in stirrups with the exam door open, or a QVC addicted mother, that simply cracks me up. Frankly, she is me, only she’s funnier (and she gets paid to air her dirty laundry).

Having found my treasure I made my way upstairs to consider a book about writing books or The Idiots Guide to Making Money Writing While Still in Your Jammies. I had chosen to shop at a Borders store that was unfamiliar to me, so finding the writer’s section was a bit of a challenge. After a brief search I finally located it past the Science section, just left of the Travel Section, buried in a corner filled with Strunk and White and The Bedford Handbook .

My brown eyes caressed each text on style; I smirked at the books on grammar, and winked at the painless writing offerings. I was happy. It was quiet. There were books. All was right with the world.

Until…

I noted that there was music being piped through the store speakers. Now, I am not opposed to “canned music”. I’ve been known to sing (under my breath, in deserted grocery store aisles) to Barry Manilow tunes just like everyone else has (don’t lie, you know you do!). But when I’m in a book store the only tunes I want to FAINTLY note playing in the background are those of Bach, Debussy, or Grieg. What assaulted my ears is not allowed to play on my car radio and certainly never to be heard in a busy bookstore on a Saturday afternoon.

Barracuda from the 1980 album release by the rock group Heart was rocking my world, or at least annoying the crap out of me. I tried to ignore it, “You'd have me down on my knees Wouldn't you, Barracuda? Uggh. Focus, I willed, focus on the text in front of you, young padawan! “If the real thing don’t do the trick you better make up something quick, you gonna burn it like a wick, aren’t you, barracuda?”

It ended, the final stream of sound drifting off into the word work, umm, I mean wood work. A quieter, more ear pleasing piece took its place and I returned my attention to the lovely spines before me. I was just about to pull an intriguing title from the shelf when I was interrupted by a soft foot step to my right. Glancing over I saw a short, bearded little man. His red stripped bow tie was askew and he grasped a walkie talkie in his small hands.

“Is there something I can help you find?” he asked.

Smiling with courtesy, his blue eyes twinkled at me waiting, breathlessly, for my answer. My flat stare should have warned him that I was NOT a rookie. I was exactly where I needed to be and if (IF!) I needed any assistance I would have hunted him down like a teenage girl in search of the perfect prom dress.

“No thanks. I’m good,” I smiled and turned back to the shelf.

“Ahh, books on writing. Are you a writer or aspiring to be one?” He queried.

I rolled my eyes towards heaven and prayed for a lightening bolt to strike me dead, or at least make him leave me alone! I gave him a polite, but clipped answer; “been published, looking to improve my skill,” smiled sweetly, hoping he would move on to the woman who was loudly (!) exclaiming that she couldn’t locate a single travel book for Punta Arenas. Sadly, he too was an ambitious writer and was preparing to dazzle me with his portfolio when the loud woman, on her way to Chile, noted his employee badge and quickly made her way over to us. She whisked him away, leaving me to bask, once again, in my solitude.

I chose my book and made my way back downstairs, allowing my nose to lead the way to a cup of freshly ground coffee. Placing my order, I looked around, seeking the perfect faux leather throne in which to ease my weary bones into. But I had ignored the warning signings when I first entered the store. This was Saturday and the joint was packed. There was no room at the inn for me. Yet, I would not be throttled.

I simply thanked the Barista for my coffee, paid for my books, and took the only seat available to me. The one located in my car in the packed parking garage.

Ahhh, silence.

Games People Play

I continue to be amazed at the head games with which the state is playing with Bio-Mom. It isn’t that I think Bio-Mom is innocent or that she has necessarily earned the right to have all of her children back post haste. It’s the simple fact that the State seems to be more interested in jerking her chain, than helping her grasp the reality of her situation. All of which has left me not only holding the two wee girls, but it has placed me smack in the middle of a role I’m not sure I’m qualified for. It’s the role of mandatory reporter and semi-friend.

Hard to believe, I know, but I like the girl’s grandfather, really like him. He’s a nice guy, good heart, and apparently smarter than his offspring. As to the Bio-Mom, I was very harsh with her early on, more so than I should have been. I didn’t want to know her. I didn’t want to understand anything about her. Alas, time passes and even a foolish, know-it-all such as I have to admit that there is some good in her. Eating one’s words is never as pleasant as eating cake though! I do feel sympathy for her as I continue to watch the game of “we’ll return your children when we are darn good and ready and you better not ask too many questions or make too many waves, because we are on a power trip” that the State is playing.

The rules and time frame in this game have changed so many times that I find my head spinning. You may remember that when we first took in the girls we thought they’d be returning at the end of May. Then it was August, October, and December. We were told once Bio-Mom found a place to live (which the Feds are paying for, but that’s another rant) that the boy would be returned immediately and then the girls would be quickly transitioned back.

Bio-Mom moved into her apartment on Dec. 22nd. The boy has still not been returned. I thought it might be a matter of paperwork. Alas, no. The game has changed and now they will be transitioning boy back over the next 30 to 60 days. After he returns they’ll begin the process of returning the girls. I understand why, sort of. Boy is a threat to the little girls. Which leaves the Bio-Mom jumping through more hoops (which leaves her angry and frustrated) and me driving, driving, driving, not sleeping, and some days feeling weary beyond belief.

We’ve come to love the wee girls but we are frustrated with not being able to be “real” parents. The girls are equally confused. Z-Monster understands that she is returning to her mother. Yet, she is terribly concerned about having her birthday party here. She wants to make sure she can stay here with us “sometimes” and “can I take my cereal with me?” Z-Monster is a sad little girl. Certainly she laughs, but it’s seldom a side-splitting laugh. Her eyes are sad and sometimes I wonder what she thinks about when she stares off into space.

The Destroyer thinks we are mama and dada, how sad is that? How do you explain to a 2-year-old that you are not her parent and that she’s not staying with you? There is no way I can believe this isn’t doing damage to her wee head. Because she has spent most of her life with either Teri or me, she is a very typical girl; plays pretend, destroys anything her sister makes, runs in circles and screams for fun. She eats like a horse, but doesn’t like junk food much. Destroyer is a meat and potatoes kind of girl. Given the choice, she’d rather have green beans (even cold out of the can) than a cookie. Will Bio-Mom provide a balanced meat and potatoes meal?

I don’t know what the answer is. Is it better for the girls to return to their mother? That’s what the experts say. If they were removed could I handle raising them? Most of me says no…I’m too old, too tired, too impatient. Could I ever forgive myself for taking the easy road?

Oh the games people play now, every night and every day now,

never meaning what they say now, never saying what they mean.

-Joe South