The Crab Chronicles

An Easter Thought

When I was a little girl I was a tomboy and also a traditional little girl. I liked to play football and kickball with my brother, and I liked to play with my Barbie dolls. Nobody ever told me I had to choose. I always assumed I would grow up and have children the traditional way, of course. Adopting a child never entered my thought process. It never occurred to me that I could possibly love an adopted child as much as a child that I produced from my body. It just didn't seem possible.

God showed me how wrong I was.

After years of failed relationships, of desperately trying to make myself pretty enough, thin enough, agreeable enough, I finally just gave up and asked God for a miracle, on my 40th birthday. I wanted to be a mom. I had failed at becoming a wife, but Mom seemed vaguely possible. I had a friend who had a baby at age 37 and told me all about her trials and tribulations, mothering an infant, which take tremendous patience and stamina. I didn't think I was up for that, not by myself. I couldn't imagine adopting a non baby, however.

By the time I turned 42 I was in the process of adopting my daughter, then age 12. Two years later, I brought home my son.

When we as human beings give up, and think there's no way our dreams will EVER come true, that's when we allow blessings into our lives. I had no idea how I could become a mom. It seemed just impossible. All I could see were obstacles. By turning the problem over to God, though, and getting out of my own way, I was able to turn a huge corner in my life.

The path to motherhood wasn't easy.

The family I eventually got -- two older adopted children and my own mother as a co-parent -- was anything but conventional. Yet we were a happy family.

Skip ahead to today.

I have almost succeeded in selling my house. It's under contract. There will be an inspection soon. It has been a wonderful home. I will dearly miss my yard and my neighbors.

But it's time to move on. Time to downsize.

It's time for a new chapter in my life.

My son is back living at home and will help me with the move, but I'm sure he will be in a place of his own in the near future. That's as it should be.

My newest challenge -- and it's a big one -- is to find the right condo or townhome where I can move to in the next month or so. Right now, because interest rates have been really low for a while, there is very little inventory out there. Nice places are snatched up as soon as they come on the market -- at an alarming rate.

I will not despair, however.

If God could help me become a mom when I couldn't see any possibility of it myself, he can find me a nice place to live out the last years of my life. It's a matter of having faith. It's a matter of getting out of my own way.

This home will forever hold a cherished place in my heart. I have lived here nearly 16 years -- the longest I've ever lived anywhere in my life. My children experienced the love of a mama and a grandmama here for the first time. Cousins and friends came to visit. Kids played in the yard. My mom lived out her final years on earth here. We celebrated Christmases and birthdays here. I was able to write six books while living here.

This old home has served us well. I'm happy it will be a welcome refuge for another family to enjoy. 

Faith can be an elusive thing. It has not always been readily accessible to me. However, I have crystal clear memories of Mom reminding me to always trust in the Lord, always have faith. When we can only see closed doors, God can see how to open doors.

God = Love

Love can make miracles happen. It's the greatest energy source out there.

 

Responding With Love to Your Teenager

I read somewhere the other day that a hug lasting 20 seconds or more releases tons of endorphins in one's body. I have been trying to hug more, just for that reason. I am going to try and keep up the practice even as we move into hot weather. I am also going to remind myself every day that teenagers need hugs and love - indeed, it's the miracle therapy.

I don't really like to get parenting advice from men because inevitably when I mention issues I am having with one of my teenagers they just say "Well tell them to straighten up or hit the road." So kicking a kid out of the house will solve everything. Men tend to see everything as black/white or ON/OFF - they are not complicated and nuanced in their thinking, much of the time. Women tend to be more willing to dig deeper into a complex solution or an unusual solution, in my experience.

When I was having major issues with my daughter years ago I couldn't let her continue to live here with us. I cried for months over that decision but I just couldn't see an alternative. She kept saying, too, that she didn't want to live here. I took a lot of criticism from non-adoptive parents over that choice but they simply didn't understand what I was dealing with. Many adoptive moms of older children have had to make the same terrible decision. It's just impossible sometimes to reason with a teenager who views adults as the enemy - particularly adults called "Mom" or "Dad" because these kids are so skeptical of those terms. There's no legacy of trust. Sometimes there's no really deep emotional bond as you usually have with birth children. Older adopted kids often see lying as perfectly normal, natural, and OK. I cannot bear it when someone lies to me. It just tears me up.

We've been having some issues with Michael recently and I can't be specific because I want to protect his privacy. However, the huge improvement I have seen in him in just the past couple of weeks has been an answer to thousands of prayers.

I wasn't going to kick him out - not ever. Lying is not the issue, as it was with my daughter. However, plenty of my guy friends would just say "kick him out" if I asked for advice. So I quit asking them, finally.

Responding with love gets you much further with kids like mine, even though it's incredibly hard sometimes.

For an older adopted child, particularly one like my son whose earliest years were filled with homelessness, neglect, and abuse, the transition to adulthood is terrifying. When your first memories are of overwhelming insecurity and fear, you fear the thought of being on your own. I can look back now, with the benefit of hindsight, and see what was happening with my kids as teenagers. [Mike will be 20 this summer.] I also rely on the blogs of other adoptive moms because it's oddly comforting to see that it's not just our kids, it's everybody's kids acting out. We usually see a kid around age 16-18 just go off the rails. [Yes, I know most teens can be a hand full but older adopted teens are far worse.]

Fear causes acting-out behaviors.

I have 3 friends who are adoptive moms of older teen daughters who just in the past 6 months have become grandmothers because their daughters got pregnant out of wedlock. I pray for those mamas and babies every day. It's hard enough being a parent, period, but a parent at 19? 20? With no education or decent job? Lord, have mercy.

What floors us, always, is the notion that our kids think they are worthless. The girls want babies because they want someone to love THEM - not realizing anything about parenting, of course. The boys act out differently.

Michael has just been very angry in the past couple of years. Thank goodness he is getting over that phase.

Michael said to me on Friday, "Why are you so nice to me? Every time you are nice and loving to me I wonder why." I wanted to cry. "I am nice to you because you DESERVE it, son. Everybody makes mistakes. It doesn't mean you don't deserve love. You're a smart, good, kind guy."

What makes me want to cry the most is that I had been truly delusional in my thinking that 9 years of living here in a pretty stable, normal home would have erased the damage done to him by his early years. It didn't. The early damage had left him with zero -- and I mean ZERO -- self esteem.

I don't know of any magic answers to any of this. I can only tell you this: loving our kids when they are going through this phase is far better than anything else. IF we, as parents, can keep calm, no matter what, our kids will benefit the most. Maybe the tough-love drill sergeant approach works best with some kids, but not with ours. Our kids need love and understanding piled on, as much as possible, because that's when we witness miracles.

Our kids need calm, peaceful conversations where they don't have to be defensive.

Our kids need a lot of hugs.

Our kids need constant reassurance that they ARE worthy of love. The future can be bright. There is joy in the world, if they look for it.

Faith really helps. Faith shines the light that nothing else can. Over and over the bible says DON'T WORRY! PRAY! [Phillipians 4:6] so in these days of witnessing my son struggle, I pray constantly. I pray when I'm working in the garden. I pray when I'm cooking. I pray when I'm listening to music. Usually it's just a heartfelt God please help us. I don't think it has to be formal. I tell Michael all the time, if things are stressful, PRAY. [Of course, he has finals next week. I want him to pray but I also told him he needs to study NOW.]

Love and prayer. Those are the engines of peace and miracles.

What I Always Wanted

There's a great line from an old movie that has always resonated with me, said by a young man who falls in love unexpectedly with a young woman of another race and class: You're everything I never knew I always wanted.

I was thinking about that last night as I was saying my prayers before sleep. I always pray for everyone I love right before I go to sleep. It's part of my sleep ritual. (I was trying to explain to Michael the other day why a sleep ritual is important, but he looked at me like you old fuddy duddy...) I ask God every night to just look out for and guide everyone, because that's what I feel is the right way to pray.

What I wanted to explore this morning is the idea that telling God what you want, specifically, is pretty arrogant and often leads to dissatisfaction. It's taken me years to learn that. Years and years and lots of tears, as the song might say.

I think Atheists and possibly even agnostics use the idea of unanswered prayers as proof God doesn't exist. I would argue that God always answers ALL prayers, but he does it in his own time and in his own way, and it's not up to us to dictate to him.

For example, when I turned 40 I knew I was running out of time to be a mother. I wasn't married.I was in a relationship that I knew wasn't going to lead to marriage. I wanted to be married before I had children. My ovaries weren't getting any younger. The whole situation was hopeless and depressing. I simply told God I wanted a family and I needed a miracle, and then I LET IT GO. Within a couple of years I became a mom to Alesia, and a couple of years later I adopted Michael.

I THOUGHT what was going to happen was that I was going to get married and get pregnant. God didn't see it that way. His solution worked out better. Much better.

God knows the inner recesses of our hearts far better than we do. He knows what needs to happen if we are to be content, or even happy. We are flawed, fearful, and fallible. God is not. I also think of the world as a huge million-piece puzzle and within each piece there are a million more pieces. The complexity is mind-boggling - to us humans.

I was thinking the other day about a lady Mom told me about when I was adopting Alesia, an older friend of Mother's who lived in Augusta and I think was in her garden club. This lady had never married or had children. She reached middle age and had to quit her job to take care of her mother who was in bad health. She wrote me the sweetest note and said she was praying that my adoption would go through, and she had asked all her friends to pray. She explained that when she was young, she had wanted to be a mother, but single women simply didn't adopt children. I remember thinking what a sad and miserable life, just taking care of an old lady, with no husband or kids to help.

I knew as soon as I got Alesia home other dreams would come true, like a big house, a handsome husband, a brilliant writing career. I was on a roll, finally!

God in his infinite wisdom taught me a lot of lessons related to those thoughts.

First, Mom and I bought a house together. Second, Mom has gradually needed my help more and more in the past few years, and so I have become a caretaker, too. It's not a terrible life. I don't feel put-upon or unlucky. Her companionship more than makes up for whatever imposition it might be to care for her. We have to watch our pennies carefully, but I have time to write now, and my writing efforts have paid off. Working as a writer and editor now is a dream come true. I don't care about being a best-selling author - I don't have the ability to travel right now, and that's no big deal. I love my home.

Mother lived alone for 9 years, but she got tired of taking care of a big house in Augusta, and doing everything for herself. I was an answer to her prayer to not live alone the rest of her life. She was an answer to my prayer for help as a single mom.

My kids wanted a family. I am the answer to their prayers. I wanted children. They are answers to my prayers.

We are all inter-dependent on one another.

I was thinking yesterday as I sat on the back patio watching the birds in the backyard, Lola asleep at my feet, feeling the sunshine on my face, hearing the wind in the trees - this is everything I never knew I always wanted. This is contentment.

Thank you God.

 

Birth Stories

I read Pioneer Woman's latest birth story and frankly thought wow, glad I have kids and I never had to give birth. I would probably start screaming for an epidural right after conception; possibly even beforehand...

Then again, I had to have a tooth pulled about 6 months ago and when I found out that getting laughing gas would prolong the whole miserable experience and cost more I said FORGET IT. Give me a shot of Novocaine [or whatever] and yank that thing out -- while I squeeze the nurse's hand into a bloody pulp.

That's as close as I can get to a birth story.

No, wait - when I got my pacemaker it was an ordeal. I was in put into "twilight sleep" which was horrible. I wasn't asleep for most of it, just groggy and scared. I was aware of everything, including being strapped to the table and having my face covered. For someone who has occasional bouts of claustrophobia, it was a nightmare. I still don't like to even think about it.

So God knew what he was doing when we skipped the whole pregnancy and birth deal and opted for Plan B, adoption.

Adoptive parents are like veterans. We talk about being "paper pregnant" - which is a unique experience. Gathering up the 7,000 pieces of paper necessary for an international adoption is not easy. Everything is scrutinized - our physical health, mental health, financial records, family dynamics, marital history. (All the stuff which my mother would say is "nobody's business.")

Still, I suppose it's better than being in a room with feet in the stirrups, my hoo-ha exposed to everyone who walks by. Mother says nobody can be shy after going through THAT.

 

A few years back I was at our neighborhood pool chatting with a friend of mine and somehow, I soon found myself in a  circle of women. The birth stories started. This is not uncommon. Giving birth is probably one of the few really terrible and simultaneously wonderful things anyone can possibly do. Still, I felt left out. I told a story about adopting my daughter -- I don't remember what -- and everyone just stared at me like I was from Mars. There was a very awkward silence. Then they went right back to the birth stories. Followed by the nursing stories. Followed by the what-my-toddler-did stories.

I fervently wished for just one other adoptive parent to swim over and stand by my side in solidarity -- not anyone did though.

There are some things only other adoptive parents will possibly understand.

 

My daughter called the other day and asked me to send her birth certificate, Russian passport, and Certificate of Citizenship to her. She also wanted "the paper you said you'd show me when I was older." After I hung up, I felt really angry and sad and puzzled, and just upset, in general.

I don't begrudge my daughter any of it. She needs to see everything. She needs to process what happened to her in Russia. Being taken away from one's family and put into an orphanage is a terrible and life-changing thing, and she will deal with the after-effects for the rest of her life. Institutions are terrible places for children.

I sent her everything, including a copy of her parents' marriage certificate, and the transcript of the hearing where her birthmom had her parental rights terminated -- with English translations, of course.

I had very carefully gone over everything with Alesia when she was about 16 but she had no memory of that. None. Her brain dumps painful memories.

If I could talk to other adoptive parents right now, I would say this: don't hide anything. Don't sugar-coat anything. Whether you adopted a baby or a toddler or a teenager, it doesn't matter. The stories surrounding the birth family are critical to our kids. They have to process some very painful things, and there's not much we can do.

A lot of adoptive parents who adopt babies can say to them "Your birthmom simply couldn't parent you, and felt you would be better off in another family." In many cases, the birthmoms are teenagers, or very poor, or they simply aren't equipped for parenthood.

In the cases of my kids, though, who remember their birthmoms, they have to deal with the fact that they were with a birthmom for 6-8 years and the mom chose alcohol and partying instead of parenting. A judge had to remove my daughter from a cold, dirty home with no food, when she was so malnourished and sick she had to be hospitalized. A home where she was left alone for hours with no food, age 6 or younger. A home where neglect stunted her brain development. Michael's birthmom was the same story.

These are not pretty stories. They are tragic stories.

We were talking the other day, Michael and I, about a family he used to babysit for. The oldest child is now old enough to sit for her siblings. "In Georgia, the law is you have to be 12 to be left without supervision," I told him. "I was left alone when I was much younger than that and I was OK," he replied. "Yes, but you shouldn't have been left alone," I replied quietly.

 

So I don't feel bad about being kind of a coward about physical pain. I have shouldered emotional burdens most of the neighborhood ladies cannot fathom. I have had to deal with my own sadness and fear for my kids' mental and emotional health after being treated so badly by their birthmoms. Bandaging emotional boo-boos that result from severe neglect and abuse is very different from what a typical mom experiences. [I took both my kids to a therapist but with limited success..]

I have almost stopped reading accounts by other adoptive parents of teenagers who go off the rails despite all the love and care we give them. Sometimes love and good intentions simply cannot make up for the early trauma. Very often, even for kids adopted as babies, the teen years are anxiety-producing nightmares. Our kids have to figure out their identity in the context of abandonment, which is very difficult. As parents, there's little we can do.

Alesia has gone through a period of rebellion, and I hope and pray she is getting her life back on track.

Michael has had some ups and downs the past couple of years; it hasn't all been smooth sailing. He's going to start college classes in a few weeks, though, and he just got a new job as a Host at a local restaurant.

They are both finding their way.

I cannot eliminate the feelings of sadness and abandonment they will always grapple with, no matter how much I envelop them with love. It simply isn't possible. I cannot wave a magic wand and go back in time and give birth to them. I wish.

Truthfully, I've done about all I can do, in a physical sense. I wish I had done some things differently, but hindsight is 20/20, of course.

Here's how I stay sane.

I remember this: my kids have been given something most of their peers in the orphanage didn't get: a chance at a good life. They have a mom, Granny, and uncle who love them fiercely and devotedly. We don't have a lot of money or material riches but those things are ephemeral. My kids were born in far-away places to women they will likely never see again, but they were re-born here, with me as their Mom, and I will never stop loving them or fighting for them to have decent lives.

 

This and That

Not a whole lot going on in my world. I am working from home, writing, walking Lola, the usual. Here's the news.

I am anxious for Fall. It's my favorite season, for one thing. For another, I'm tired of the heat and humidity. I feel like saying OK I MADE IT THROUGH SUMMER NOW I WANT MY REWARD!

I have checked around to several different stores and the Georgia Backroads magazine with my story in it isn't on store shelves yet. Very frustrating. Hopefully next week it will be available at CVS and/or Kroger.

I checked on the computer Thursday night, and Michael is finally free to get registered for college classes. Yay! He had to work yesterday so we couldn't get it done but hopefully Tuesday he can go over to campus and get that done. He can take half-term classes that start in October. Probably will only take a couple of classes, as they cram in a full semester's work into a half a semester and I don't want him to feel overwhelmed.

I feel keenly sorry for Rosie O'Donnell's situation with her daughter Chelsea. The daughter has now turned 18 and gone to live with her birthmom. I feel so sorry for Rosie. The birthmom reunion is unlikely to go well, based on what I hear from other adoptive parents about such reunions. The daughter has mental health issues, and is trying to figure out her identity. A lot of adopted kids go off the rails around the age of 17 or 18, just like my daughter. With any luck, once the girl matures she will realize how fortunate she was to be raised in a loving home.

Michael and I watched the movie Black or White the other night. It stars Kevin Costner as a grandfather raising his bi-racial grandchild and getting into a custody fight with her black grandmother. The critics hated this movie when it came out. I read some of those reviews. Costner usually makes watchable films, though, and this one was no exception. It was a really interesting and thought-provoking story. I would recommend it for kids 12 and older, as a good starting point for discussions about race, identity, substance abuse, and fairness. 

Georgia plays its first football game today, in Athens, so I may watch some of that. I've gotten fond of watching college football, in my old age. I have no idea what's going on but I cheer loudly when the Bulldogs score. Mother watches in her room, hollering louder than I do.

This weekend is Dragon Con, "the world's largest sci-fi convention" and the traffic in midtown will be awful. So glad I live outside of that area. I have a cousin who is a photographer and a sci-fi fan and he has gone to it every year it has been in existence. He took the photo below in 2009. I have no idea who those people are supposed to be. The woman looks like she has a lot of hostility, based on all the outward-facing bullets in her costume...

photo by Mark Embry

Coming Undone

Most Sundays I make an effort, at some point during the day, to write an essay here, to sort of stretch myself a little bit as a writer. At any given moment, there are usually at least a couple of ideas in my head that bear further examination and often they are worth essays, if I can organize my thoughts.

This Sunday needs to be different.

I was watching CBS Sunday Morning a little while ago and for no particular reason, I just started crying. I was not in physical pain. My gardens had been watered. Lola had been walked. Mother had been dressed and given her breakfast. I had started my laundry.

Lola was asleep on the sofa next to me.

I had eaten a good breakfast and was drinking my tea, which is normally the time of the morning when I try to just Rest and Digest. Watch a little TV. Play some Words With Friends on my phone. Plan the day.

So where did those tears come from?

I realized that they came from postponing dealing with some painful situations that arose last week. They were destined to come out, and the only thing to do was let them flow.

Tears that don't get to flow turn into poison inside of us, I think. Poison that causes self-destructive behavior and piles misery on misery. I don't want to go down that road.

Nothing really awful happened last week. Nobody died. But sometimes when sadness piles up one finds oneself carried away on that torrent, with no control whatsoever, and no way to steer safely over to the bank.

So here's a list, of sorts, of at least what I feel comfortable sharing here. I'm hoping writing about these things will be cathartic...

I interviewed for a job late last month and I was sure I would get it. I would have bet money on it. It was the perfect legal job for me. The interview went really well. At the end, the interviewer shook my hand and said "I really enjoyed meeting you, Dee. You are delightful." I floated home on a cloud of optimism, already planning all the things I could do with that great salary.

Not only did I not get that job, I didn't even get called for a second interview. 

The same day I learned that upsetting news, I saw a job ad and thought "AHA! That's the perfect writing job for me! I will apply to it! God has shut a door but opened a window." So I did. I spent a great deal of time carefully crafting a cover letter highlighting my writing experience that I felt was relevant. I sent it off with a prayer and high hopes.

I didn't get called to interview for that writing job. My experience has been that if I send off a resume and don't get called for an interview within 24 hours, it's highly unlikely I will ever hear anything else about that job. Sometimes I'm wrong, but not usually. I think the person who places the job ad sees my resume and thinks "OH! I better call and get her in for an interview because she looks like a great candidate and I don't want someone else to steal her away!" -- OR not.

I am still applying right and left for any job I think I might have even a remote chance of getting, but after doing this off and on for most of the past 5 years, it's gotten very old. I wish I could just find an employer who understands that I can learn new computer programs without much trouble but some kid right out of college cannot bring my level of intelligence and wisdom to the table. Unfortunately, employers have set up screening mechanisms that pretty much discount anyone whose resume doesn't fit a narrow set of criteria.

My father hired people based on whether or not that were smart and had good character and a good work ethic. He didn't care what they majored in in college. Unfortunately, there aren't many like him around any more.

Another source of sadness...

A friendship that I thought might turn into something more did not. In fact, it's pretty clear to me that the whole relationship will likely never go anywhere, for reasons totally beyond my control. I had been hopeful. That's all I can really say about that...

Another source..

Mother's arthritis has been plaguing her recently, to the point where she is in a lot of pain -- not all the time, but frequently. There is nothing I can do about that. I take her meals to her in her room, and try to help her have books to read and things to distract her. Watching someone you love suffer, and being unable to fix it is hellish.

There were smaller sources of upset which, taken individually, are not a big deal, but taken all together...

I need to get back into the weight loss groove. After being sick for months and unable to eat much without feeling awful, my recent recuperation has seen me putting some weight back on which I needed to have kept off. I love food. A lot. [Especially Ritz crackers...] I've got to get back on the program, though. It's always tough. I'm rather disgusted with myself.

I've gone to great lengths to try and get Michael to go to college, but I cannot predict what he will do this week, given his fear of new situations. I keep praying about it, but I just don't have any clear answers. I keep thinking to myself that if Michael could really and truly understand just what a promising future he has, with his incredible intellect, work ethic, sense of fairness, inherent kindness -- so many good qualities and talents -- he could do ANYTHING. He just doesn't realize what an amazing person he is, and I haven't been able to convey that to him.

My favorite Teva sandals are kaput.

I am sick of heat and humidity of August. I want FALL TEMPS.

I am tired of trying to think of things to fix for dinner.

Lola needs a bath.

I need to clean my room and I don't want to..

Yes, I realize now I am just basically whining. It's my blog and I'll whine if I want to.

So... the pity party is over, for the moment. I feel a bit better. I haven't given up, or given in. I will keep fighting the good fight, and trying to take care of my little family without whining or feeling sorry for myself.

I will try to remember the many blessings in my life, while I eat my salads and send off resumes, and pray.

I still believe God has plans for my life which include joy. 

My job is to keep the faith.

“For a seed to achieve its greatest expression, it must come completely undone. The shell cracks, its insides come out and everything changes. To someone who doesn't understand growth, it would look like complete destruction.”

 ― Cynthia Occelli

photo by Lisa Amos

 

Fake Food Rant

The older I get the more I realize that I need to be eating more healthfully [not "healthy" which is incorrect, thanks Mom] and that includes not eating what I call Fake Food. Why? Well, not because I have advanced intelligence, I must admit. Not even because I am fat. No, I have simply learned that I just feel better if I eat Real Food. [More energy. Less indigestion. Better skin. Etc.]

Now, I am very guilty of eating Fake Food. When I was in grad school, particularly, I lived on canned tuna and Campbell's soups and hot dogs. Cheap, fast to cook, and I liked them. Between work and school I never had more than 10 minutes to spend on meal preparation. [I actually lost weight on that diet, but it was because I was walking all over UT campus and trying to eat fruit instead of sweets.]

Michael discovered the joys of Jello salad recently and made himself some. I had a spoonfull of what he made -- cherry jello with a can of fruit cocktail mixed in -- a "congealed salad" that was a staple around my house when I was growing up. It was yummy but too sweet.

But Fake Food is something certain kids only get because their parents don't cook real food, which is really sad.

Exhibit #1: Kraft Mac & Cheese

"Kraft Foods Group announced Monday that Original Kraft Macaroni & Cheese sold in the United States will be made without artificial preservatives or synthetic colors starting in January 2016. Kraft says it will replace synthetic colors — including Yellow 5 and Yellow 6 — with colors derived from natural sources such as paprika, annatto and turmeric."

I don't know what "annatto" is but I bet it's more tasty than chemicals. Kudos to Kraft, but I think they only took this step because of public pressure..

When I was a kid, my grandmother and mother made macaroni and cheese from scratch. It involved boiling elbow macaroni 3 times longer than the package directions, until it was really soft. [To this day, I hate "al dente" pasta, ugh.] Then you make a basic white sauce and add lots of cheese, salt, pepper, onion powder, paprika, etc. Finally, you add in a couple of beaten eggs as you mix the cheese and pasta mixture. This was the BEST mac & cheese EVER. It was not lowfat, but things that are really tasty often are filled with fat because as any chef will tell you, Fat = Flavor.

Of course, that mac & cheese was not a staple around our house because it is some trouble to make. Mom made it on special occasions. [Most people who don't cook, of course, are puzzled by the term "basic white sauce" -- which I learned to make around age 10...]

You don't have to buy the boxed crap to give your kids something quick and pasta filled. Keep reading.

 

Exhibit #2: Give Kids Real Cake

Mom was telling me a story of when my brother was in about 4th grade and she made a homemade pound cake with homemade chocolate icing. Bruce brought a little boy home from school to play, and Mother gave both boys big pieces of cake and glasses of milk. The boy loved the cake. He went home and told his mother how wonderful it was -- and I'm sure it was; Mother made fantastic cakes. The next day, Mom went to school to pick up Bruce and saw the child's mother, who came rushing over. "My son just loved that cake you made yesterday! He can't stop talking about it. What kind of cake did you make?" the woman asked.

Mother said "Well, it's just the old 1,2,3,4 pound cake with boiled chocolate icing."

The woman instantly realized Mother had made the cake from scratch instead of a boxed mix. Her demeanor instantly changed. She said something dismissive and stormed off, furious. She never spoke to Mother again!

Mother had shown her up. That boy probably grew up to be a chef...

 

My point is simply this: once kids eat real food, they like it. They usually don't want to return to Fake Food. And real food isn't that difficult or time-consuming to make. If you don't want to spend a lot of time making traditional mac & cheese, just make pasta salad. Use whole wheat or veggie pasta and olive oil and fresh garlic and parmesan cheese. Takes a little longer to fix than the boxed stuff but it's SO much better. Throw in some diced up peppers or zucchini and it's much more healthful.

I figured out a tasty spinach recipe the other day. I just sauteed some bacon in olive oil and threw in my spinach with some garlic powder and balsamic vinegar and sauteed it for a few minutes. You can also leave off the bacon and just use olive oil and fresh garlic, which I tried too, the next night -- the taste sensation is the balsamic vinegar. The sweetness of it cuts the bitterness of the spinach. Now, I must admit something -- I hate to see spinach stems on my plate. I don't know why. I just don't like stems. So I sit and pull off the stems while watching TV, so I just get the leaves. Still healthful. Very yummy. If you have a child who won't eat fresh spinach try pulling off the stems. If he still won't eat it tell him it came out of Shrek's swamp... Be Creative!

Think your kids just would never touch spinach? Try fresh asparagus -- easy and tasty.

Don't have time to make a cake from scratch? Try my brownies -- very easy to make if you have the ingredients on hand.

I know how hard it is to work full time and come home tired. You don't want to start in making some elaborate dinner, especially when the kids need homework help, the dog has to be walked, the kitchen is a mess. etc. BTDT Single moms especially have it hard. There are alternatives, though, if you are creative.

I had a friend at work years ago who raised her own two kids and her husband's 7 kids - 9 kids! She worked full time, too, and they had to live on a strict budget. I asked her how she managed. She said on Sundays she made 3 things, usually a roast, a pot of something like chili or spaghetti sauce, and something else. They ate on those as main dishes the rest of the week.

Another friend of mine told me recently she likes to get together with a buddy once a month or so and they spend all day cooking casseroles they can freeze to eat on days when they don't feel like cooking. Very clever idea.

An employer of mine some years ago said his kids' after school babysitter was paid to fix dinner for the family Monday through Thursday nights. She wasn't a great cook but she cooked decent, healthful foods. Of course, he and his wife weren't hurting financially...

So there are alternatives out there to Fake Food. Even if you don't like to cook, try not to feed your kids a steady diet of takeout food and pizza... They will thank you one day.

Signs of Hope

Ever have a day when you don't feel so hot and everything seems to be weighing you down? I had that kind of day yesterday.

There was nothing particularly wrong -- well other than the ongoing concern about money -- but it wasn't a happy day.

Michael can be a snarling bucket of bile when he doesn't get enough sleep and/or doesn't eat enough. Right now the boy is never home for meals and when he does come in he wants peanut butter crackers and/or sugary stuff like cookies and brownies. I'm usually in bed asleep at midnight when he's eating dinner. He won't take a vitamin. So add malnourishment to the list.

And it's not like there's not healthy food available. There's a big bowl of green bean salad in the fridge -- which he loves and I made specially for him -- plus carrots, cucumbers - plenty of good stuff available. Normally he's good about eating veggies.

I have tried to explain how he is Jekyll/Hyde depending on if he's gotten enough sleep or food, but since he doesn't have to deal with himself he doesn't realize it.

So yesterday every word out of his mouth was putrid. Plus my sinuses were bothering me. And I was retaining water. And I had some indigestion.

And it was HOT. Winter? That was last week. I was loathe to turn on the air conditioner but the house was stuffy and even with windows open the circulation of air isn't great.

Towards the late afternoon, when I had just about had enough drama, I walked out the front door to take Lola on a short walk.

As I stepped out of the door I heard a whooshing of wings and I looked to my right. A beautiful, big red cardinal flew towards the porch and turned to fly right towards me, staring me down, then banked sharply to the right and flew away. It happened in just a second.

Now, I take cardinals as signs of hopefulness.

It felt like God was sending me a sign, saying "OK Dee, I know it's a sucko day, but hey, DON'T give up! Here's a reminder that things will be OK!"

Thanks, God. Thanks cardinal.

photo by Linda Hasty Harris

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The Broken Road

I always watch TV while I cook breakfast. Usually I find something on HGTV or maybe the local news, so I can catch the weather report. This morning, I flipped on the TV and caught an old movie I haven't seen in years, Broadcast News.

I remember identifying closely with the (short, southern, spunky) Holly Hunter character, and wishing I had gotten my degree in journalism instead of Drama. (There is clearly a lot of drama in journalism, however.) Then again, with the explosion of the internet, there are a lot of good journalists out of work now..

At their best, movies hold up a mirror to us and say hey, this is what you look like -- do you really like these things about yourself? Really?

All the movies I've ever seen that were written by James L. Brooks made me think. I am sure that I could watch As Good As It Gets and Terms of Endearment once a week for the rest of my life and still find interesting things, new things, every time I watch.

As I've often said, movies where something blows up every 5 minutes don't interest me much, but movies that honestly explore human relationships are endlessly fascinating.

Watching Holly Hunter this morning reminded me of what I found most interesting when I watched that movie the first time. I was fascinated by her clothes and her hair. I was dazzled by handsome William Hurt, and yet he was playing a character who was not too smart, and that turned me off, a lot. (To me, attractiveness is all about intelligence and personality, and looks have little to do with it.) I loved the homes in the movie. I loved the excitement of the news.

More than anything, the movie made me realize that the span of years since 1987 has seen me change so very, very much, and that is actually fine. It's not a bad thing. I can remember dreading the thought of being over 50 and yet, it's not bad at all. I couldn't have foreseen that slowing down and savoring the things in life that matter (family, friendship, faith, etc.) would be so much more fulfilling that my headlong rush to get what I wanted when I was in my 20's.

When you spend 20 years obsessed with finding a great love, getting married, having children, and being a famous writer, the fact that your perspective can utterly change is mind-blowing. So how did I change so radically?

The first thing that did it was the loss of my father when I was 34. Nothing prepares you to lose someone you share that bond with, that incredible tight relationship. Dad and I had arguments all the time, and I was often frustrated by his behavior, but when he died I was lost. It felt like somebody had thrown me off a boat, and I was dogpaddling desperately as the ship sailed away. Paddling and paddling and wondering how to even find the shore.

Now I realize that what I had to do was simply float. The harder I paddled and swam and exhausted myself, the worse things were.

I'm speaking in metaphors of course.

(I just realized how funny my metaphor is - since I am Cancer the crab, a water sign, water is very important to me.)

Other losses have rocked me over the years, but losing Dad was really the catalyst for the necessary character-building that had to happen.

I am so not the same person I was in 1987.

One of the joys of life now is putting Lola on her leash and walking. When I get home from work, I just want to be outside, after being cooped up all day.

Another joy is talking to Mother. We have some great talks. I would be a far more uptight person and a much more inept parent if it weren't for her wise counsel.

I told Michael recently that Granny is his greatest ally and advocate, and he just grinned. What a blessing she is to him, and how he is going to miss her when she's gone. He has no idea.

Being in an office with younger women has caused me to reflect a lot in the past week. I recognize and remember how I was, from observing them. I am the "old lady" and that's kinda weird. I still remember my first job, and being the youngest person in the office. I remember being blissfully unaware of all the curveballs life was going to throw at me. That's OK. It's good, in fact. I probably would've started drinking heavily if I had foreseen it all.

What I sort of wish I could do, though, is travel back in time and counsel the 25 year old me that watched Broadcast News for the first time. I would have so much to say to her. I would be full of advice about taking things more slowly, and saving money rather than spending it, and making sure to shut up and listen to my dad rather than arguing so much. But would 25 year old Dee listen? Would she do anything differently? Probably not.

I'd probably just be appalled at the fact that I am still not skinny. (Below, me around 1986 with Molly..)

When I feel regrets coming on, though, I immediately stop and remind myself that the twisted, messy roads I have cursed sometimes have also led to being a mom to Michael, and I don't want to change anything that would negate that. If I'd gotten married young and had biological children I wouldn't have adopted my kids. I wouldn't have traveled to Russia and Kazakhstan and experienced those cultures. I wouldn't have met some of the fascinating and wonderful friends I have now. Would I be more happy?

Maybe. I doubt it. I just would have different problems.

Do I get tired of dealing with a teenager and an 80 year old? Do I hate dealing with menopause? Do I miss old-fashioned job security? Do I get tired of worrying about how to pay bills? Absolutely.

The burdens weigh me down sometimes and I just want to take a day off and stay in bed -- but I keep going. Like the song says:

"This much I know is true. God bless the broken road that led me straight to you."

Life hasn't turned out the way I thought it would. I haven't walked through it alone, though. Love has been all around me. Love has sustained me. Friends have kept me going many times. Mom has always been my rock. When I get tired and discouraged, God sends me signs -- all the time -- that he is with me, and I CAN keep going.

And I am grateful.

 

 

What Makes a Home

When I was in college and started forming my adult opinions I decided that I would never, ever, live in the suburbs. I would live in apartments in the city, or a townhouse maybe, where I didn't have to worry about weeding the flowerbeds or raccoons getting into the garbage, or any other suburban conundrum. I would be a Bohemian, haughtily opposed to the ridiculous and meaningless problems of the middle class suburban drone.

Then I grew up. I lived in a series of apartments. Between 1984 and 2005 I lived in 3 apartments in Knoxville and 2 here in Atlanta. My last residence before this was, technically, a condo, but it looked just like an apartment.

One day I remember driving down Henderson Mill Road and seeing all the middle class suburban houses and feeling a strange sense of longing. The yards were well-tended. There were brick schools on the road, and churches. There were many trees. I was still living in my condo, which was nice, but suddenly I longed to live in a solid and real home.

My heart longed for the stability of a house, with a yard, and trees and shrubs. I wanted a dog. I wanted real roots here in Atlanta. A house meant all those things.

Above, the house where I spent the most time when I was growing up, what we call the Venice Road house in Knoxville.

When I dream about my childhood, this is the house that usually appears. We lived in 3 different houses in Augusta between 1959 and 1971, when we moved to Knoxville. My memories of those houses are vague, although the last one is pretty clear.

What strikes me now about the Venice Road house in Knoxville is that in hindsight I realize it was a place of sanctuary.

I could tell you the names of every family on our street. I could name all the kids who lived in those houses. I could identify most of the families in the neighborhood.

That first winter, we sledded down the steep hill that led to our house. I had never seen snow that stuck to the ground, or had a snowball fight, or gone sledding. I had never experienced much winter, because winter in Augusta is very mild, usually only requiring a light jacket, on a January day.

A short walk away, in Knoxville, there were still farmers, and we bought vegetables from the farms. When you drove the country road behind our suburb you could see the mountains.

If there's anything I miss about Knoxville, it's the mountains. I took them for granted.

I didn't realize until I became a mom in late 2004 how much I wanted my daughter to know the sanctuary and comfort of a house.

We moved to this house in 2005, and Mother and I started sharing our lives again, and sharing the care of my children.

Our house

It's not a mansion. The driveway is bumpy. The patio needs pressure washing. There are always maintenance chores to be done.

However, it's a home.

Last night I was ill. I had - and still have, to an extent - some kind of stomach bug.

I called my next door neighbor last night after 9, on a Saturday, and she came right over and walked Lola, and helped me upstairs to bed. There was nobody I could've called on like that when I lived at the condo, or in any of my apartments.

I have come to realize that neighbors are what makes a place a home. We are blessed here with excellent, caring neighbors.

Michael's first birthday in this house, 2007

We got Michael home on May 9, 2007. He spoke very little English. He was tiny, and scared, and very clingy with me. Two months and a couple of weeks later, I wanted to do something for this first birthday in America. He hadn't made any friends because he was still learning English. He mostly just played with his sister.

We invited the kids in the nighborhood, on our street, plus another family with adopted Russian speaking kids. Everyone came and played games, ate cake, and had fun. The kids welcomed Michael and gave him a happy afternoon, filled with laughter and presents. I was so grateful.

There are so many ways in which we are blessed to live here.

The last time we had a big snow, Snowpocalypse in 2011, the schools were closed for a week. One of our neighbors loaned Michael 2 really nice sleds, and Michael and Colton sledded all over the place and had a blast.

That same neighbor saw my mailbox knocked over a few months later and just stopped and fixed it, without fanfare.

At Christmas we always get small gifts from our neighbors. When someone new moves in we welcome them with food.

We are not just a bunch of WASPS. On this street where I live we have Catholics, Jews, gay couples, interracial couples, Asians -- pretty much a melting pot.

The suburbs are not a desolate, soulless place, not necessarily. Our neighborhood is a great one, with caring people. We are very blessed to live here.