Having 39 children is not my claim to fame; it is only my way of indicating here, within these pages, the level of my experience with raising older adopted children. I have experience, not expertise; baptism by fire, badges of honor possibly for hanging in there for decades; and I’ve seen so much plus experienced so many highs and lows along the way. Having been someone’s mom for 33 years and 25 years of working in the public school system, homeroom teacher to the emergency shelter teenagers…I may have nothing but experience.

Indeed, I ended up parenting one of the teens from that shelter years ago. Now she’s been married a dozen years, expecting her fifth child, a shrewd and beautiful woman, my life changed the minute she and her caseworker walked into the media center in 1994.

This young woman, just 14 and pregnant, did not speak English. Years of a very difficult, poverty stricken life in El Salvador, raising herself, she could have passed for 25 years old then with no make-up on. I translated her story to the caseworkers and, as all Southerners do, suggested they call me if they needed anything else.

Within the hour, knowing I had a houseful of Hispanic children, they asked if she could live with us. I’m not a foster parent, but merely being MAPP trained and having several home studies done on our family by then, it could be called an emergency placement, supervised by the other county.

While appropriate rubber-stamping phone calls were being made, one of my other daughters, offered to spend the night in the shelter in order to ease this other young girl’s mind as she was petrified with fear. Looking back, I’m shocked that my young teen, Yolie, was able to emotionally do this as her own personal past had been so traumatic, but her very big heart would not allow her to sleep comfortably in our home that night, knowing the terror in this other girl.

Not surprising, Yolie, went on to earn a Bachelor’s and a Master’s Degree, later, in Social Work, and then worked in the adoption field until she became a married, stay-at-home mother.

Our newest daughter, only stayed with us for a few months, as the county CPS told me I could turn my back if she went out the door to get married, I couldn’t grant permission though. She did marry the father of her unborn baby, now my oldest grandchild, and a smart young girl in middle school.

But those few months cemented our relationship, the only happy months of a childhood she’d ever had. Her husband-to-be came to our house and had asked to marry her in front of the entire family, reducing my other daughters to tears, we didn’t doubt his love for her one bit and he’s turned into a fabulous father as well.

I later adopted this young lady, Carolina, as an adult; our own version of a happily ever after fairy tale. They live one mile away; they’re going to build a house in the next few years on the front two acres of our property. Her husband has built up a thriving sheetrock finishing business; he still speaks very little English. He’s patched a thousand holes here at my house over the years.

This adoption story was an easy one; I was blessed to be her mother. Many of my other tougher adoption stories though, I relate here only to hopefully inspire others to hang in there because all of my children eventually, so far, have turned into mighty fine adults…after much rockiness to get there.