We are done!

It finally happened.

We adopted the orphans.

(note: not all children pictured are orphans)

It took all of five minutes and there was too many questions.

Like having a kid the old fashioned way.

‘cept this time I didn’t actually get screwed, by Texas or anyone else.

If you follow me on Twitter, I have already changed their names to those of a multiple birth.  A, B, C are the bio children.  D, E, F are the children formerly known as orphans.  Girls are A & C.  Yes, you won’t know their names, but at least you might know where they are in birth order.  A&B are adults and the DEF are 6ish.  C is the forgotten middle child and also 12.

Now that we have that out of the way….

We had to go to the border town last night.  NOT where white people want to spend a lot of time.  Shut up, you wouldn’t.  I’m probably a bit jaded since the first time I went there and the caseworker freaked out when I told her where I was.  (The border town is not big on street signs and I had wandered out of her comfort zone) anyway we spent the night there.

And I ironed.

This was a big BIG deal.

We got there at 7:50 for the 8:30 hearing.  Our former adoption worker was there already, but not our current one.  She did arrive on time, which in our book was about 40 minutes late.

The whole thing was rather anticlimactic.  There was another adoption before us.  I almost cried when they said he had been placed at nine days.  He was at least as old as our kids.  yay for Kevin.

When it was our turn, our attorney (who was appearing by phone) asked Tech Support all the questions.  Which, and I’m sure I have mentioned this, Tech Support is deaf ish.  And speaker phones suck.  But, it all got done.  Wham. Bam. Thank you ma’am.

No one was excited.  Considering we have had 14 failed adoption dates in the past, we really didn’t want to get too excited.  Which sucks.  We should have been excited.

Because I ironed.  I don’t iron.

The only complaint thus far from the kids has been from F.  She is disappointed that we did not change her name to Victoria or Victorious or Emily.   After all, her sister got to changer her name to Victoria/Victorious/Emily something….(not really) And that we can’t go on a cruise today.

Would not be the right time to tell them I’m unemployed….

Anyway…..

after court we had to file the paperwork.  We were handed papers and reminded that the kids no longer exist.  Their files are sealed.  Without the four papers that were handed to me.  They cannot be reanimated, legally speaking.

Yes, they handed the papers to me.  The only papers where my children exist.

No one told me I would have to responsible for things.

Then I had to go get paperwork stamped.

I handed a lady, and by lady I mean barely not a kid, the papers, without reviewing them or asking for supporting documents or a court order or anything.  She made my kids new people.

So this is it.  The end.

I can now keep my knives on the coffee table, and chemicals under the kids beds.  And no one gets to come in and tell me any different.

I can now move or just go to the freakin pool without asking my mommy for permission.

I can get a bunny.

I can do all sorts of things that most people on the planet take for granted.

It’s a big day.  I would like to give you all a high five or a hug or a fist bump or a slap on the butt.  However it is we congratulate each other on an awesome job.

Now, I’m gonna take a nap.

This past weekend I was asked if there was something I don’t write about on my blog.

The answer is yes.

The one thing that I try to NOT write about on my blog is the day to day marital issues.

I can see the benefit of writing about big things and the way it helps others.  Sheila Walsh has a tremendous story about how she forgave her husband for things I cannot comprehend.

I am talking about the little things that come up daily.  It has been a conscious decision all along, but until this weekend I had not put words to the “why”.

If you go to the homepage of my website, you’ll see a slide show.  Every time I watch that slide show I am reminded about happy times.  I look at it and say “that’s the life I want to live.”  They are snap shots of happiness.  They don’t represent every day.  I am not exciting EVERY day.

It is a collection of happiness.

Were I to write on a daily basis the frustrations that come up in the course of living life with my husband, I could probably pinpoint at least one frustration a day.  He works at home, we are together 24/7/365.   If I wanted to find something frustrating, I wouldn’t have to look far.

Like it or not, this collection of writings is my legacy.  Snapshots of my life.  When people read this they see what I am showing them of my life, as well as that of my husband.

My husband is good people.

My husband adores me.

These words are his legacy as well.

I could write how he is not a mind reader, puts things in places that seem odd to me, says things that I take in ways he didn’t intend, is on the phone when I want him not to be (rarely happens, but I’m used to 24/7 access, and also impatient). I could say that.  I could regale you with stories of lists, and I might as his lists are definitely who he is.

The point is.  Each story is a snapshot.  When I look back at the legacy that I have left here, what will I see?  Will I see a husband that bumbled his way through things?  That wasn’t there for me when I needed?  That said hurtful things? That is not what I want to see.

My husband is good people.

My husband adores me.

He is the guy who worked in a closet so that we could provide a home for 21 foster kids.  He is the guy who holds down the fort while I run.  He reads to the kids and takes them on adventures.  He works long hours so that I can be home taking care of many small children.  He encourages me and supports me.  He is with me on my adventures. He is generous and kind.

That is the slide show I want the world to see.  That is his legacy I would like to leave for the world to remember him.  Should the kids ever find these writings, I don’t want them to see their father as something I put up with all these years.

I adore their father.

I adore my husband.

The rest will be forgotten, unless I give it its permanence here.

We have been told umpteen gillion times (not an exaggeration) that this is the month.  THIS one.  I know we’ve said it before but this is really it.  We’ve heard it so many times we are immune to getting excited about the possibility we may someday actually get to adopt the kids that came to live with us on a February night back in 2005.

Sit yourself down.  You may feel queasy.

We will not be adopting the kids on Friday.

They have not filed termination on the father.

Whuh?

I thought they had.

Yes, so did we.  Every service plan, legal document, blah blah blah for almost five years has referenced the fact that the named father and all unknowns had their rights terminated.

But in fact, no one actually filed the paperwork with the courts.

Therefore, he still has rights.

So, there’s that.

What next?

They try to terminate his rights.

This should be fairly easy as he has not seen them since 2005 and they were one or younger.  Additionally, his rights were recently terminated as to another child that is not in our care and whose adoption was finalized in November.

Unfortunately, and this is speculation on my part, this opens the door for every long lost relative to come forward and claim the kids.  This tactic was tried with the other kid and they were all denied, but still, if they want to “do it right” they will have to do homestudies on the family members and decline them in regards to our case.

Also, just because they can get termination, doesn’t mean he can’t fight it.  How soon this happens will likely be determined by how much he wants to fight for kids he hasn’t seen since they weighed their current age.  (6 pounds)

This is absolutely frustrating.  Mostly because I noticed the lack of supporting documents regarding the fathers termination when we were given the legal documents from our since been fired attorney.

This is not a little thing, like they got his name wrong on the documents.  This is THEY DIDN’T FILE THE DOCUMENTS.

Also, disturbing is the fact that our attorney didn’t pick up on this.  It is referenced on every single document.  Fathers rights: Terminated.

But like I tell the kids.  Just because someone says something doesn’t make it true.

So, our day to day will remain the same.  You, the happy tax payers will pay for the state to continue processing our case.  Even though the federal gov’ment has a law that states kids have the right to NOT be in foster care their whole life.  That they have the right to “closure” they will continue to be in foster care and will not get closure.

We had not discussed with the kids the possibility that they would be adopted this week.  Umpteen bajillion times bitten and all…. We do plan to be extra diligent with caseworkers NOT bringing up the adoption thing.  They ask all the time “So, do you want to be adopted?”  and then are told that adoption means that mommy and daddy love them and they get to stay here forever.  Only to ask us every day for the next six weeks if we’ve adopted them.

No, we haven’t adopted you.

So, you don’t love me…..

Shut up CPS.  Stop talking about things that aren’t being done.  Stop talking about things and actually do something.  We will tell the kids about the adoption AFTER the court has finalized it.  While this ultimately concerns them most of all, this is not their decision.  They are very young children.  This is not their decision.  We are the adults that have been put in charge of their best interest.  We have decided that it is in their best interest to remain with us.  Adopting them is the best way to assure that they do.  Whether they want to be adopted or not is not for them to decide.  If they got to decide everything they’d have McDonald’s 400 times a year and go to bed at midnight. They don’t get a say in it, stop asking them.

This process is not in my best interest for sure.  I LOVE the kids.  They are mine.  But this process is not fulfilling to me.  I would like to be able to decide where I’d like to take my kids on vacation.  I’d like to be able to visit my family in Montana this summer, but because we can only be gone for ten days and it cost $800/person to fly there we have neither the time nor the money to visit.

So that’s what’s happening now.

We had a phase.

aka – pregnancy and post partum hormones

then a bit of resentment set in.

It is the typical story of a marriage.

Both of us had already been through a divorce and were not keen on another.  Tech Support spent his childhood missing one parent or another.  I just didn’t want to be that lady who had been married eight times.   And if I didn’t figure out what the hell was wrong with me, it wouldn’t be long before I was that lady.

Having been divorced, I could see the benefits.  The problem with that marriage was bad picking.  I knew going into it, that it would be short lived.  That was not the problem with this marriage.  I had picked fell ass backward better this time.  He was good people.  I’m likable enough.  Kinda fun.  Also, both of us are incredibly stubborn.  Neither of us were going to be the one to give up first.

So, we figured it out.

What works for me is not remembering yesterday.  Turns out, Tech Support is human.  He’s going to screw up.  I have to not keep a log of every wrong he’s ever committed against me.  Honestly, I don’t know how he puts up with me.  boobies

This year I’m committing to adding to the happily married column.  Treating each day as a new day.  Not letting crap build up.

If that fails, I still have my stubbornness.

On the TV.

Last night I watched Zebra Migrations (or something about zebra migrations) on Nat Geo.  What I learned is that the zebras have never known an orphaned zebra to get adopted.

I think they know this because of the after documentary interviews they conducted with the zebras.

In all my life, I ain’t never seen it.  You seen it?  Uh uh.  Me neither.

But I didn’t stick around to hear the whole story.

I’m guessing zebras don’t like the paperwork involved.

Could you imagine the mountains of paperwork if you little orphan zebra got attacked by a lion?

Where were you? What were you doing?

I was in AFRICA.

I was waiting around hoping not to get eaten by lions.

But it’s Africa.  Things happen.

Bite me.

I’d totally get cited for that.

This past weekend was that weekend.

Our original plan was to go to a disc golf thingy, but then then Tech Support got shot.

Instead, we went to a local state park.

But not before renting a hideous RV that I named Minnie Pearl because it had a price tag permanently imbedded in it and also smelled like a dead old lady.

I will be naming names.

After we get our deposit back.

After announcing my absence on Facebook, friends rallied.  Annie. Camping?  They were on the ready in case I needed them to throw me a benefit or something.  Had our house burned to the ground or something? No.  Just supporting the cause of turning my boys into stinky men who don’t shower.

For the record.  No one showered.  Except Tech Support.  No one brushed their teeth.  Except me.  And we were all fast asleep about ten minutes after the sun went down.  Seriously, who knew complete and utter darkness and no TV would have that effect?

So, that happened.

I made it back alive.

Was not killed by the elusive Chupacabre.

Which, is the Big Foot of the canine world, in case you don’t constantly have the History Channel on at your house.

However.

There was a bra that got a little out of hand and tried to kill me.

#truestory

Being the runner that I am (shut up) I am finding myself wearing workout clothes a lot.  Say like, most of the time.

I threw a random regular bra into my bag, in case the uniboob look annoyed me.  Which it did.  Now, I don’t know if it was hurt feelings about getting relegated to the minor leagues or what, but that stupid thing tried to kill me on several occasions.

Having lived through that ordeal, I counted myself lucky.

Til I woke up with what looked like vampire bites on my hip.

By the end of Sunday they looked like boobs in need of a new bra, by this morning they had grown cleavage.  I was going to Tweet the picture, but could not get them to not look like boobs.  Which makes me want to Tweet them even more.

We are back, safe and sound in our own home, in our own beds.  Hopefully free of bugs and I will hopefully be down to only one set of boobs later this week.

Because if I have to wear two bras for the rest of my life, please just shoot me.

While gone, my phone coverage was shotty, ahem.  So I did not answer the multiple calls from Mama.  Luckily she did not give up.  She wanted to ask me for a visit.  Which is fine.  She is allowed to visit.  Here.  She wanted to alter that ever so slightly.

She wanted US to drive 7 hours round trip, to visit the baby daddy in his halfway house on THANKSGIVING, because he was all sad that he hadn’t seen his children in 5.5 years.  Boo freakin hoo.  Can I say it more politely?  Hell NO!   Not being deterred, she came back with a counter offer this morning.  He can use his day pass to meet us half way and we can have lunch in McDonald’s on Thanksgiving.  Sorry, not open.  and also? Bite me.

There is no legal requirement for us to facilitate any visit with any person.  We allow Mama to see them if she puts forth most of the effort.  Something that has only happened once in the 18 months we’ve had this agreement.  Driving 7 hours on Thanksgiving to have dinner at a halfway house, that I’d probably have to cook, is not part of the deal.

If I ever update my status to “driving 7 hours to visit the babydaddy in his halfway house” someone convene a full on intervention, and benefit concert to aid in my mental health bills.

Because that’s just crazy.

anyway

I have to get milk.  Hopefully before everyone else decides to go the store for their turkey.  hahahaha – too late for that.

until later

be awesome

For instance, I use stairs whenever possible.  At a conference I attended this weekend, however, the stairs were behind the black curtain.  At said black curtain a person was posted to discourage the use of the black curtain/stair combo.  This person had the task of herding all persons towards the escalator or whatever.  I usually walked right past the post and moved confidently towards the stairs.  No one tackled me.  Most didn’t even say anything.  So really, the black curtain was not really a rule, more of a recommendation.

Which I didn’t follow.

This quirk of mine shows up all the time in the foster care world.  Agencies and Departments are so used to using the children as bait to get the adults to do whatever they want, they hate it when we can see past what is being presented as a rule and expose it as the recommendation that it is.

The recommendations are that the kids get therapy, that we report their misbehavior to the agency and therapist so they can get the help they need.  We will take respite and open the door to anyone with a badge, because we “have to” it’s a rule.  It’s not written anywhere, but it is.  Trust us.

I am in therapy.  My kids aren’t.

My kids do not need therapy.  They need specialized parenting.  They don’t need to talk about their feelings with a trained stranger, they need to share their feelings with their parent.  Do they have feelings I do not know how to deal with?  Yes.  Thus the therapy for the person who is best suited to train them.

Can a therapist tell them to talk out their feelings, or whatever?  Yes, but unless they include me in what is going on with the child (WHICH THEY CAN’T even if the kid is two) I can’t really assist the process the other 167 hours a week.

“But we don’t pay for YOU to go to therapy.”

I never asked you to.

and by what they said, they mean…

“It’s easier for us to get grants and funding for an on staff therapist than it is to pay an outside person, who won’t share your records with us, for you to go to therapy.”

Oh, wait, you don’t make enough money from the state by keeping 2/3 of the daily stipend?  You poor things.

The kids were in therapy.  For years.  Our latest we saw weekly for almost two years.  Every week she said the same thing.  “I have a book I want you to read.  I don’t know the name or the author but I have it here somewhere, I’ll get it for you and give it to you next week.”

EVERY WEEK.  How is this helping anyone?  Well, except the agency that employs her, and receives grants and funding in excess of what they are paying her.

I stopped reporting every instance of every problem we ever have.

Although that is what I’m trained to do. (No you’re not – yes I am)  The agency will do every thing they can to encourage you to “pad” the reports with every poor behavior encountered.  This proooooves they need more money to deal with these difficult children.  It also serves to remind me several times that my children are horrible, not normal, but horrible.

Child A hits Child B.  Report it.  Child C uses “inappropriate” language.  Report it.  Child A wakes up every night and wanders in to other peoples rooms.  Report it.  How many instances of said behavior did you see this week?  429 instances of one child hitting another child.  726 swear words.  Many small children ending up sleeping in a pile on the couch, for goodness sake.  They are ungrateful ingrates dammit.  No one says “Please” or “Thank You” or goes to bed without crying.

Just like your kids.

Where do I write that Child A spends two hours a day singing and dancing because Child A enjoys that.  Or that Child B is a brilliant artist.  Or that Child C is capable of Oscar winning performances.  Oh, that goes in the overly dramatic check box. They do not want you reporting good behavior.  Too bad.  Since I stopped looking for the fund inducing behaviors they have decreased dramatically.

You cannot come to my house without an appointment.  Or at least another adult present.

Yes, you can come over unannounced, but if I am alone, I will not answer the door.  Straight up.  You can peek through my windows? I’ll wave to you, but you cannot come in.  Because if you come over unannounced, I know it is because you want to know if I kicked, hit, starved, forgot to bathe a kid.  And when you ask if I have ever kicked, hit, or forgot to bathe a child or “deprived” them of food,  I want a witness.  Because of course I’m going to say “yes” because I have.  Not out of anger nor have I done it on purpose, but there are rare occasions when someone is where they are not expected to be and they get kicked, or hit, or tackled.  Whatever.  Things happen.  Just because I have hit, kicked, tripped over, fallen on blah blah blah to just about every kid in the house, it does not mean that I did something wrong.

I don’t use respite.  (as provided and funded by my agency)

I don’t spend 24/7 with the kids either.  I take my breaks.  But instead of taking traumatized kids to a strangers house for the weekend, I hire a sitter and we leave.

This weird thing that I did was explored by the Psychologist yesterday.

Why would you do that?

Because the kids worry that we will drop them somewhere and never come back.  So not only are they in a weird place, they spend the whole time worrying we won’t come back for them.  If we let them stay home, they are at least in familiar surroundings with a familiar child care provider.  They also don’t have any experience with us not coming back.  At least one of them is quite familiar with being deposited into a strange home and never retrieved.

Yes, it’s more expensive.  It requires a hotel for mom and dad, which isn’t a bad thing.  You also can’t get people to babysit 5 kids for $60/day.  But we do it because it is the best thing for our family.  Kids included.  We have the money.  We need the break.  We aren’t asking the agency for anything and the kids are not in any danger.  We would not leave them with a stranger, which is, in effect, what you are asking us to do when you arrange respite for us.

All of these things comes down to money.  As it always does.  I am not playing the funding game.  I signed up for this “job” not in the best interest of the bottom line, I did it for what is in the best interest of the children.  All of them.

Am I perfect in it?  No.  But my kids are “thriving”.  When I take Felpsy to the pediatrician he remarks that we have “worked a miracle” in that child.  As former kids have aged out, they have returned.  Whatever it is we are doing is working.  Ask the people who have known them their entire lives.  Not just our friends and families, but the pediatrician, who has known them since the day they moved in. The psychologist has been seeing them for three years.  Our family therapist has known us since well before the kids showed up.   Do not make assumptions based on your 20 minute visit.  Yes I have kicked them, probably a couple of times, and I don’t use respite or take them to therapy, I am not reporting their maladaptive behavior not because it isn’t present, but because I don’t want that to be the sum of their reports.

Ask anyone who knows us.  Knows us knows us.

They are good kids.

We are good parents.

We are lousy foster parents.

And I misquote:

All children under the care of (US) who are legally free to be adopted… they define that as kids whose parents rights have been terminated and are not in an adoptive placement…are MANDATED (emphasis mine) to attend the adoption awareness picnic in thus and such a park on thus and such a date.  If you, the foster parent, cannot drive them you must contact US and we will pick them up and deliver them to the park.

We Throw Frisbees?

Mandated picnics.

Is it a law?  Did you go to the legislature and make it make us take our kids to a picnic?  Or are you just using the word to scare me?  Because I’m not scared.

Not a bit.

I will go so far as to assure you that my kids will not be attending.  And if you show up and take them, I’m calling the po po.

I will be forwarding a GINORMOUS box of frisbees for you to throw while you are at the park.

Tomorrow I will be shopping for a frame that will house the citation that I will surely be getting for not attending the mandated freakin picnic.

If only I had thought to keep the letter.  I laughed, showed the letter to Tech Support and immediately removed the bad juju from the house.  Although it would have been great defense in my trial.

You brought Mrs. Awesome to court, why?

Because she wouldn’t bring the kids to a picnic in the park where we had all legally free kids in the area on display for peoples who wanted to adopt.  And instead of, ya know, matching parents with children based on the parents self assessed criteria and the childrens needs, we decided to just dump a bunch of kids in the park and let the parents pick out the cute ones.   We figured that the kids could manipulate the probably very poorly trained parents into taking them home.  Because we realize that parents only really want cute children.  Even if they are fire starters and the would be parents specifically stated that fire starters were out of their area of expertise.  We figure it would be love at first sight and they would over look the child’s needs and just take them home.  We have TONS of kids in the system and those radio ads aren’t working.  Of course Mrs. Awesome has had the kids in her home for six freakin years and has spent thousands of dollars on an attorney so THEY can adopt the kids, but as you will notice she’s white and we should not place not white kids with her permanently because it is her intent to rob them of their cultural identity.  The kids will grow up believing they too are white.  And then one day, someone will let it slip that they aren’t white and that would crush them, so we feel it would be best to take them out of a home they’ve lived in their ENTIRE life so they can be with strangers who look like them.

Well that makes perfect sense.

I am trying to find the happily every day.  Ever after is a given.   Right?

For a Fairy Tale formulaic story anyway.

Tech Support and I  have been happily married for 11 years.

Give or take.

But didn’t you get married in 1998?

Yes, you are correct.  We had to do a trade for the 18 months of sheer bliss prior to the wedding.  Or something.  Life is fair and things have to even out.

Except not.

Several weeks ago there was an incident that involved my wedding ring.  And the treadmill.  Let’s just say they didn’t get along and the treadmill won.  So, for the past month or so I’ve been without my billboard of love, symbol or marriage.

Until today.

The jeweler called.  My ring had been resurrected.  Without divine help it took weeks not days to bring it back to life.

Since today was (laying around naked all day day) Friday and we had a (covert community planning meeting) windsurfing party to go to.  Tech Support, who had (laid around all day too) been up since four in the morning, sent me to get the ring.

Which I did.

It was all shiny and new. The rock was where it was supposed to be.  All buffed up nicely without the years of wear and tear.  And boy did it sparkle under the magic jewelry store lighting.  I tried it on quickly to make sure it fit, then took it off so that it could be put back on by my husband.

Which he did.

After he got down on one knee and asked me to spend the rest of my life with him.

Tear.

Which he didn’t do the first time.

Before.

Before four more kids.  Or 22, depending on how you count.

Before he found out I don’t like to talk on the phone.

Before he found out that I must watch TV alone.

Before he got me pregnant and I turned into a psychotic freak and got really fat.

Before it got bad and ugly.  When it was just the good.

And it was good.

Really good.

But today.  He did.  Did get down on his knee. With four kids demanding our attention.  While wearing his “I love my wife” shirt. You don’t see that in the movies.  A guy in an “I love my wife shirt” asking a girl to marry him while four kids are wanting, in no particular order, glitter, swim suits, a band aid, raspberries and a hug.

So, I got a do over. An I do – do over.

A new proposal, based on reality about what life is and not what he hopes it will be.

A ring that looks new and pretty, but is just the same old, scratched and bent up ring that somebody put some effort into.

So, YES.  I will spend the rest of my life with you.

I, Annie Awesome, take you Tech Support, to be my lawfully wedded husband to have a lot and to hold mmhmm from this day forward. As long as we both shall live.  I promise to try to remember to write a list before going to the store AND to take said list AND buy things that are on it that were requested by you.  I promise to TRY and remember that laundry gets all wrinkly if left in the dryer for four day and take it out sooner.  I promise to say “sorry” more and swear a little less, (especially around the kids).  I promise to return your keys immediately upon finding my own.  I promise to always tell you when I’m in a bad mood as soon as I know it instead of punching you in the throat for breathing near me.  I promise to always take my nap and my meds when I need to.  And to hire a sitter whenever you want to sneak off on vacation.

I will love you forever.

And also every day.

One problem.

It’s Thursday and she has no concept of time.

Even AFTER I picked her up from camp she was asking if TODAY was her special day.

No, that’s tomorrow.

Today?  This day?

No, tomorrow.

Today is not tomorrow?

That is correct.

Commence the wailing and gnashing and the what not.

In a futile attempt to stop the wailing and the gnashing I had a surprise.

Wanna go see Mama?  At Chuck E. Cheese?

Which we did.  And her sisters, and Mama’s mama.  Who’d I’d seen before, but had never been formally introduced.  Let’s say, for the sake of anonymity, that Princess’s given name is Princess Mustard Foster.   We have submitted the name change to be Princess Pickle Awesome.  Turns out g’ma is named Mustard.  How did I go 5.5 years without this information seeping into my brain?  It’s not her given name, I know that to be the case, but I did not know that she went by Mustard.

In addition to learning that today is not tomorrow, I learned some other very important lessons tonight at the Cheese’s.

1. Stay away from Meth.  Far.  Far.  Away.
2. I have sexy feet.

Seriously, while using the facilities someone in the next stall commented on my sexy feet.  OK creepy and all, turns out it was one of the sister’s.

OK then, I’m just gonna go back out there and feel even more awkward, if that’s alright with you.

So, how did we end up at le Cheese with Mama?  Today at lunch, in a very noisy place, I started getting many phone calls.  All from Mama.  First, I don’t answer the phone when I’m with people, and second, the place was very loud.  I ignored it, and again, and again, and again.  Finally, what?  She was halfway through the three hour drive to see us (go to the beach) and wanted to stop by and see the kids.  That’s all well and fine, but set it up before you drive 90 minutes.  I told her the kids were at camp and had a field trip today, they’d not be available til 6ish.  OK fine, and we decided on Chuck E. Cheese, but she probly wouldn’t be done with the beach until dark.  Sigh.

I spent the next several hours contemplating the importance of a decent bedtime and seeing Mama.  Luckily, she decided that 6ish would be fine.

Now, when the babies were babies, we did not have visits.  As she was hiding the fact that she was already pregnant again from CPS.  So, until the twins were 10 months old, we had one visit where I “told on her” and CPS said she wasn’t pregnant, that some people just stay poochy after twins and I told them to have her pee on a stick  and I found out that would “violate her rights” and that’s the last we saw of her until we got the phone call that she had had a baby.

To say we had gotten off on the wrong foot, would be fair.  Me telling on her, because CPS was too dumb to figure out that pooches aren’t firm and move of their own accord.  Anyway, we had a visit at 10 months then not again til the twin were 13 months.  It happened to be Felpsy’s 2nd bday and I had gone to lunch with another foster parent when she got a call to “return to the office immediately”.  And I didn’t.  I went anyway and was stopped at the door.  I could see through the window that all “my” kids had been stripped naked and people were taking pictures.   OH HELL NO.

And the person stopping me was a CPS worker who very reluctantly had placed other kids in our home and did not like me.

Seems while we were gone, Mama was trying to get the oldest to say, on video (which is verboten to have video cameras brought in) that he had seen me hit the babies.  1 year old twins and a just this day 2 year old.  Well, after 45 minutes of watching it play out and Mama throwing a fit, they called in an investigator to take pictures of all the “bruises” – at which point I was thanking Lord baby Jesus above that I had made the pediatrician CHART every single Mongolian mark on the babies (which he thought was stupid).  And that all involved had fax machines.  I mean come on.  Mongolian marks are not bruises, and this part of the country should know what a freakin Mongolian mark looks like.

Mama and I did not get along well after that.  For years and years and years.

I have tried to not hold it against her.  I mean, what would I say or do to the woman who had MY kids?  But tonight, every shared whisper spiked the old paranoia meter, just a bit.  I’m happy.  I want them to have happy moments and shared secrets and what not, but still havin your babies stripped naked and photographed lingers for quite awhile.

Things seemed to go well tonight, but me and my sexy feet still took the long way home.