Being almost 53 years old, still a country woman, my roosters, two of them, wake me up each morning bright and early. 4:55 a.m. my eyes flew open and thoughts of the day rushed through my brain, pumping me up and propelling me out of bed. The other 25 kids still are snoring, two attic fans whirling and bringing in the night air redolent of honeysuckle and gardenias, both blooming right now. I inhaled deeply, gratified to be a gardener.

People don’t much have attic fans anymore, preferring the rarified air of air conditioners. I can’t tolerate the closed up capsular atmosphere involved in such mechanics, I need wide open windows and the pure night air billowing through my house. This may be a June morning in Georgia, but this pre-dawn breeze is almost chilly.

Next best aroma came from the coffee pot as I spoke briefly with my 20 year old son heading out the door to work.

I love the quiet mornings in a house full of rambunctious kids. I cranked up my laptop and started reading newspapers and blogs, grateful that I had zero errands to run today, knowing I had sufficient time this morning to head out back to the big gardens to work and to think.

The emotional demands placed on an adoptive mama of 39 children are huge, even crushing at times. I’d taken a 12 year old son to a different mental health agency yesterday along with his 13 year old brother for sibling support. My 12 year old has many severe emotional issues, he’s as complex as Rainman, as simple as Sponge Bob, very needy yet full of off-putting problems.

Two of my older married daughters babysat while I was gone with these two boys, both remarking that my house mood was so much lighter having the twelve year old not here being disruptive.

I’ve worked very hard on several of my significantly disturbed children only to seemingly have wasted my time. I’ve poured myself into children who shook off all my attempts, ending up in jail, a homeless shelter or on the streets. Nancy again made me think hard this morning about other parents and their similar travails. Lulu’s mother is exploring these issues also, all thought provoking for me as well as strengthening. Sometimes I have a little pity party and feel as if I’m the only one so burdened.

But isn’t that counterproductive of me? I’m not the traumatized child. I’m the educated, experienced, allegedly mature mother who was selected (by God in my opinion) to parent each of these very complicated children of mine, don’t I truly believe that I’ve also been equipped to do so as well?

Yep.

By 5:49 this morning, my 18 year old daughter shuffled past me on her way to McDonalds for an eight hour shift.

“Bye Mom, I love you,” she threw over her shoulder, “I’ll be back at two.”

Both of these two grown children who just went to work, the oldest two of a very tough sibling group of seven children, have graduated from high school, and are slowly learning to budget their paychecks, balance their bank accounts, they’ve both bought used cars and they both deeply love our family.

I have to continue to look at the successes, not lose my way in grief over another son that’s in jail or these two grown kid’s brother who’s involved with the juvenile justice system. I’m learning that reaching age 18 is sometimes only the beginning of my parenting of traumatized children. After attaining adulthood, often bottoming out, they then reach back to me, finally willing to listen and to learn; our relationship changed to the point where they don’t feel forced to depend on me but rather empowered to choose me by their own self.

OK, kids, have it your way; but either way I’m still here for y’all.