Putting out a minimum of posts lately is not due to any lack of ideas or material. Living with my children gives me enough to write about for decades to come, and then I’ll write about everything else that I never had time to blog.

In sixth grade I clearly remember a teacher threatening my friends and I with, “If y’all don’t stop talking I’ll have you write 500 page essays!”

I recall then thinking something along the lines of, “Have at it Miss Turner, I could write 1000 words before you even cross the classroom.” Verbosity is not a problem. Fortunately I didn’t blurt it out as I’m now more likely to do in my fifties. Age has its privileges.

What I’m recently struggling with is keeping it real without discouraging anyone from adopting older children. If I spouted off tales of fluffy love and sunshine you know I’d be lying but what new adoptive parent, still in the honeymoon stage, wants to hear about broken windows and peed on heater vents?

That’s truly my reality and it can really reek in the winter.

Tonight was a bitterly cold night and I slipped out with half of my children to watch my seventh grade daughter cheer at a basketball game. I ran into a teacher I’d worked with decades ago, she was surprised to see me across the county, knowing I’d long since retired.

“Honey,” I told her as I call everyone darling, sweetie, honey and all that, “I’m here with my children. That beautiful Mexican girl on the end is my daughter and that’s my granddaughter across from her in the blue coat.” They are both seventh graders.

My gorgeous child flew across the gym floor, acrobatic, lithe and graceful doing tucks, cartwheels, midair flips and all sorts of contortions. She didn’t have on a speck of makeup because she’s only 13 and I won’t allow it and she is truly a spectacular young lady. This is what I imagined decades ago when I first started adopting older children who are now in their late twenties and early thirties.

The majority of my 39 children have been delightful, even the very tough, angry ones have had wonderful days and weeks at times.

Tonight as I watched Sabrina with pride, all the rest of my children behaving perfectly in a crowded, rowdy gymnasium, I’m reminded that this is why I do what I do, and how glad I am to be telling a nice story here.

Photo Credit Cindy Bodie