If there is one thing I constantly try to over-do, it is in the area of encouragement to children once living in utter discouragement.

The first time, in 1991, that I met one of my darling daughters was in her foster mother’s house in Texas, at the 6th birthday of her baby brother. She, then age 11, ran to her room to show me the A that she’d earned on a fifth grade report she’d written about Russia. I complimented her; of course, encouraged to be adopting a grade-grubber, something I’d aspired to be throughout my own schooling.

She’d later told me that when she’d attempted to show good grades to her birth mother, she’d constantly been rebuffed with a “Get outta here, leave me alone,” as the mom battled an overuse of drugs and alcohol. Last thing she cared about was a piece of paper.

My daughter told me about having to get her own self and her brothers to school; their birth mom, often hung-over or stupefied from drugs, just didn’t care.

I over care if anything. I’ve often told my kids that I’m solidly, squarely over-protective and if that smothers them, then I’m sorry, but I’d rather be overly concerned than under.

Considering the circumstances from which they came, this over-concern has not been an issue here at all. They know I care, they just struggle to believe that someone does care about them that much.

My hero, Bobby Cox, the Thumb King, often thrown out of baseball games due to his over enthusiastic disagreements with the umpires is, in my mind, the ultimate encourager. He has a passion for his players, much as I do for my children. He’s one of the winniest managers in baseball; he must be doing something right.

Like any normal human being, I have a critical eye that I try and temper with praise words for my children. “Thanks for throwing away a pull-up nighttime diaper,” to a child rather than a, “What are you thinking? You think we wanna smell that crap?”

Constant, “Good job,” coming out of my mouth and tons of “darling, honey, sugar and sweetie,” as I address the kids. I have my moments though when I’m a little less than encouraging, but I also have a highly developed conscience, a guilt complex that nails me when I miss my verbal mark.

I laughed out loud reading this article early this morning, finally reading it aloud to the kids that were up with me at the crack of dawn. “Sounds like you, Mom,” was their response.

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