Last 6 hours

Hi, this is not my normal blog, which I have much to say, but am on a deadline tonight.  The article written by Kathryn Joyce was published online this week in the publication Mother Jones.  You can read an excerpt from her book on line at Mother Jones as well as if you google.

Both Kathryn and myself have issues with the abuse that has been dished out to children in some adoptive situations, which include, Isaiah, and his older sister CeCe.  While CeCe has moved on to a family of her own, she still struggles with the fact that she was never educated either, just the same as Isaiah.  These children did not have a voice, they do now.

I have clearly shouted in my book "Finding Friday" and I hope you will help me reach my current goal, which is $261 short.  I have six hours left.  I thank each and everyone who has shared this, and contributed, but if you have not, I ask that if you are so inclined, please give in the next six hours.  Thanks and blessings to all.  Here is the link.

Running out of time, sneak into Chapter ! "Finding Friday"

Hi, everyone.  Life is pretty busy right now and I am down to the last few days of my crowd fund raiser for Finding Friday.  Here is the "sneak" into part of the first chapter.

CHAPTER 1: MONROVIA, LIBERIA.

FRIDAY

            The boy looked around, taking in the bustling picture.  He was alone, although there were lots of people walking, standing, even bumping him as they passed by.  He narrowed his eyes against the intense glare of the sun and tried to get the lay of the land.   It was dusty, and hot, with lots of noise of a typical West African city. Lots of different dialects were being spoken as people did their business. They had places to go, things to do, they knew their destination. They had some sort of home or shelter where they could go even if they had nothing to eat, even if it was just to sleep in the searing heat at mid-day. He had nowhere, no-one, other than the man that brought him, who had lied bringing him through the authorities, saying he was visiting his family.  He didn't even know where his family was.  He was thirteen years old, he was scared out of his brain, and he had no-one to turn to here in Monrovia, his birth place.   He had lived in America, the "Great America" for four years and he didn't belong here anymore.  He had forgotten all of the ways of Africa as well as his native language.  He didn't like the man Herman Schmidt, but liked being on his own less.  Mr. Schmidt had left him for a while, said he would be back soon, had some sort of errand to run, so the boy stayed close to himself trying to melt into the crowd, all the while hanging on tightly to his possessions for fear they would be stolen.  

            He had a back pack with a couple of items of clothing and shoes on his feet.  For that he should be grateful.  He wasn't sure what his next move was. Mr. Schmidt had taken his passport, his birth certificate, his green card, and his social security card.  At least he hadn't take his forty dollars earned doing work for his American father.  He was puzzled about why the man would take his papers, because his American family had said they would bring him back when he was older, eighteen, they had said.  Wouldn't he need his papers to come back to America?  And, he now had no identity to prove who he was.  Here he was Friday, although most people had called him Noah, but now he had become nameless.  

Was that what they had intended?  Friday was confused, and felt guilty most of the time.  He absolutely believed he should be here as his punishment.  The kiss he had stolen had not just crushed love, it had crushed his whole life.  He had lost everything in that moment, and fully believed he deserved to be here, in Monrovia, in this hell hole, that he had come from just four short years before.  His birth family, or what was left, could be here or could be farther south, in the interior.  Either way, how long would it be before someone found him?   He had been through some scary stuff in the last couple of months since he had been kicked out of his adoptive home in America. He had a taste of fending for himself even before he landed here.  He remembered the bus ride north from Alabama to where he had met the man, Mr. Schmidt.  That had made him frightened.  There had been older people who were rough, tough looking, said bad words, and pushed each other around.  And then there had been a few days where he was on his own to fend for himself with some street kids, before the man could take him on the plane, and land him here.  

At thirteen no matter how tough you pretended to be, it was terrifying.  He had been very protected in America, never going off the family property much unless he went to work with his Dad.  Nobody in the family went anywhere much, unless it was to church, or the occasional visit to the little town to get some groceries. Friday looked around him and could see those people on the bus were pussycats compared to some of the kids within his peripheral.  Survival.  That's what happened here.  Each to his own to get food, and struggle to live another day.  There weren't many old people here, they died early, and somewhere in the back of his childish mind, he knew that was his fate, too.  Die young, with nothing.

Mr. Schmidt, the one that had brought him on this journey, said his "grandmother" knew he was coming.  He had told him that the Carson's, his family, had called her on the phone.  They had sent money to her and she knew he was coming.  Schmidt said that it was all arranged, a done deal, he would be fine. She would find him, that's what he had said.  Friday hoped so, because he wondered how they, his American family, could have sent money to the Interior.  There were no Western Union's there, that much he did know.  There were so many questions arising in his mind that didn't make sense, but then he didn't feel he had the right to make sense of it.  

He was the guilty one, the one who had done wrong, and maybe coming here, or being sent here, could make all the guilt go away.  He tried to remember his "grandmother" and father, but he had been only nine when he left and those memories were like a fog in his brain.  His father had sent him to the orphanage when he was about five, and although his grandmother came to visit him sometimes when she travelled to Monrovia for medicine, he didn't have a clue what she looked like now.  He wondered if he would recognize her or if she would know who he was.  He had changed.  He had grown up in the last four years.  He wasn't a small underdeveloped nine year-old.  He had physically developed from doing construction and painting with his Dad, which he had done on most days for the last four years, so his frame had become muscular even though he still wasn't very tall.  

What if she didn't come?  He knew that she lived further south, in the Interior, Rivercess, but he didn't think he had been there, no memories of that, but he was pretty sure there were no phones there, so how did his Mom and Dad get in contact?  It wasn't like people went there very easily.  It was a long way.  You had to get a car, and they were not very reliable here, and then it was further after that.  At least that's what he thought his grandmother had told him once when he had asked where she lived and why she only came now and then.  If she didn't even have a phone, then how would she know?  Would anyone tell her?  Maybe his African father had.  His mind whirled around with chaotic crazy thoughts of being left here with no-one.  When you are thirteen there is no other choice than to hope Mr. Schmidt was right, that his family really did know he had come back.

It was sort of exciting at first, having everyone's eyes on him. He liked attention, but not the sort that got him in trouble.  He had messed up, been stupid, but there wasn't anything else to do.   He had either gone to work, or when that dried up, he had run around the family property with the other kids.  There had been no school, or at least not much.  And he had certainly got up to some mischief, but not as bad as some of the other kids.  Confusing, that's what it was.  Why were some things OK for some people and not for others?   He had belonged to a mixed family, some biological kids who were all white, and his sister, and a couple of others who had been adopted from the orphanage here in Liberia.  He never expected to be treated the same as the white kids, he didn't know why he thought that, but it had been so.  

Somehow, the black kids got into more trouble, even though they all did the same things.  It was like he had to prove to them that he would be a good son.  The words that had been said to him still echoed in his head and would for years.  "You're a bad boy, you deserve to be put out of the family.  You have committed crimes against our family!  We don't want you anymore!"  

He had tried his best to be what they had wanted him to be, but he had failed.   He couldn't please his mother, who had asked uncomfortable things of him, and he couldn't please his father, who wanted him to disobey his mother.   Then his mother betrayed him and he had been put out of his adoptive parents home, sent to live with a couple of young men for a while.  His parents had convinced him he didn't deserve to live in America anymore, that he should go back to Africa, in shame.  He knew this was his fate, his death sentence in fact.  People didn't live long in Liberia.  You could get over the starvation, or at least sleep a lot so you didn't notice, but it was the lack of hope that got everyone in the end.  And if that didn't get you, then the rebels or bad men might.

A tear slid down his face as his sentence handed down by his new family sunk in. He knew he was on the verge of embarrassing himself and just sobbing, he felt so helpless, and rejected.   He thought he was free of all the hunger, the abject poverty, and the incessant fear that was life here in Liberia, but he had taken a full circle back.  The man had returned, and walked him towards the orphanage where he had so gladly left behind over four years ago.  It was empty now.  They had shut it down.  Too many kids had gone to the "Great America" and caused trouble.  

He remembered as he looked at the vacated buildings.  They looked worse, if that was possible, than they did before. Friday's mind went back to when he first came to this place.  His mother had died, something to do with childbirth, he thought, but he really didn't know, couldn't remember.  Not long after that his sisters had gone away to the orphanage, this one right here, and he had stayed with his African father.  Then his father married again and more children came, so he couldn't stay there anymore, not enough food for him, so he ended up here as well.  It had been strange, because he knew his sisters, but didn't really know them.  They weren't close, like in hugging or any of that stuff.  He was beginning to realize that he didn't remember much of anything.  It was like his mind was filled with lots of blank pages in a story that you couldn't understand because it was missing too many pieces, pieces he chose to lock away deep somewhere in a forgotten place, never to be unearthed again.

The sounds of the orphanage echoed in his head.  The grounds were dry and dusty, but he smiled as he remembered playing soccer with whatever sort of ball they could find.  Of course, they didn't know the rules but that didn't matter.  They were tough and played that way.  They were fast on their feet.  Their world consisted of being awakened very early and leaping out of bed immediately.  If you didn't, you got a beating.  He had his share of those and was smart enough to avoid them whenever possible. Beatings made you learn to survive here. Survival was now his greatest skill.  

He learned about hunger here, too.  One cup of rice a day and whatever else you could scavenge. There wasn't much of that either.  If you were quick and fast you could avoid all the poop on the beach and try to catch a fish, but he had been too young to master that skill.  Funny to remember the poop, at least he had an indoor toilet in America, and didn't have to go find a place to squat. The beach was the most popular place for that here.   He never did master the art of catching fish too well, so he was glad he was one of the younger ones, because sometimes there wasn't enough food for the older kids.  They had to wait and hope tomorrow brought more food than yesterday.  He knew his sister, Patience, often went hungry, in fact, sometimes she even gave her portion to him and his younger sister.  

He kicked the dirt angrily.  Anger was never far from the surface these days.  He lived between fear and anger, but fear would kill you here or get you something you didn't bargain for.  Anger heightened your awareness, and he needed that to make sure he made it and didn't end up dead in the bush somewhere.  He looked back at the orphanage.  Herman was on the phone, distracted, as the sharp image of a twelve year old kid holding a gun to his head popped into his head. A street kid who had joined the Rebels. The kid had looked at him deep into his eyes deciding whether he would live or die. Friday had survived, although a chill ran through him like a cold wind as he remembered.  

He had seen bloodshed.  When the fighting had come, he had seen throats cut, deep with flesh falling out like little tentacles, with blood everywhere.  He felt the warmth of his own blood rush to his face as he remembered shame here, too.  He would never forget the older boy coming to his makeshift bed in the night.  He was vulnerable then.  His innocence was spent that night and would be no more.  He would walk in shame that such a thing had happened to him here.  But he would also put on a new skin that nothing or no-one would penetrate, ever.   He was only six years old when these atrocities had happened to him, but he had become someone much older that night in the darkness.  He had changed forever.  

There wasn't anybody to tell, and it would be many years before he ever had the guts to do so.   This went on he realized the longer he stayed there, and nobody cared.  Everyone turned a blind eye in the dark.   You had to stay awake, be on guard, not be available, hide, whatever you had to do not to be raped and dominated and, to have your very own spirit crushed till it was no more. Friday had only told one other person, trying to save himself from the fate he now had.  He had bared his soul, told of his shame to his new Dad, Aaron, but it didn't matter.  His Dad just thought he was a monster to be rid of, which still confused him.  He couldn't think any more about it.  It was too debilitating.  It was not something he would ever tell of again.

There were not many adults for the amount of kids in the orphanage, and the pastor that ran it only came now and then.  When he would come he would bring extra food and clothing and stuff, but it was never enough.  They never had enough of anything, but that was life here in Liberia. There wasn't even one of those big organizations, like the ones that brought food and water and stuff.  He vaguely remembered fleeing from the orphanage in the middle of the night once.  There had been a lot of yelling and guns, loud noises and men running here and there, and the girls and women who worked in the orphanage screaming as they fled into the bush.  His older sister had kept him and Francis, his baby sister, safe.  Patience, had kept them protected, covered them from the bullets and the men who shouted and killed anyone who was in their way.  He remembered being out in the bush hiding for days until the bad men had left.  They were hungry and left out to hide and fend for themselves.  

It had become one of those pages in his mind he chose not to recall.  But, when he had been out there, hungry, dirty, scared, he had wondered if there really was a God.  If there was, He wasn't here in Africa.  God only came on Sundays when the missionary preached.  He had learned early that God was not protecting him.  No need to listen.  He had hidden his heart within a covering made up of rejection, shame, and abandonment, impenetrable, sort of like the Grinch, at the ripe old age of six.

If you are led to donate to my campaign at Indigogo here is the link.

Finally, the article about the abuse, neglect and Isaiah

 This is an article written by a journalist, Kathryn Joyce, about adoptions from Liberia, which concern especially Isaiah. I do not agree with all the comments on this page, I think most of you who know me, know that. But the important thing to come out of this is that 1. Isaiah WAS dumped back in Liberia by his adoptive parents which is illegal, 2. these children, including Isaiah and CeCe were not educated, but then neither were their own biological children, 3. These parents had no training in what to expect from a severely abused, neglected and war torn child, which led to abuse in another form. 4. We need to stop this abuse. Please read this article which will give you an insight into "radical" or extreme thinking. After you do that, please consider my campaign to publish my book, a totally different point of view. My book, Finding Friday, is not about assigning blame, it is about the fact that no-one cared that this thirteen year old child had been dumped back in Africa, with the intention of his green card running out, and him never returning to tell "stories, or truths" about just what happened to him in the Great America. I am all about forgiveness, but not about abuse, neglect, or the uncaring, unfeeling, attitude that I got from Government officials, whose response was "Well, he is out of the country, we can't do anything." Please read, and please consider helping Isaiah tell his story. 
http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/finding-friday/x/2407860
http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2013/04/christian-evangelical-adoption-liberia

I have posted this because I want everyone, or at least as many as I can reach to understand it "takes a village" to correct anything.  One single person on their own can do very little, but if everyone takes a stance, then this sort of abuse, neglect, ignorance and just "sheer" don't care attitude can change.  I will keep on going until it makes a difference.  Will YOU!!!!

A Sneak Peak into "Finding Friday" the book............

This is not my traditional blog, but a "look" into my book "Finding Friday" which is very soon to be available.  If you like what you read, and want to read more, please consider contributing to my crowd fund raiser "Finding Friday" on Idiegogo.  Here is the link.  Thank you to everyone who has contributed and made this book a reality.





PREFACE


All of my life I had searched, and still do to some extent, for
something that is out of reach and challenging. Something that
would make me go the extra mile. I always thought much more
selfishly than the outcome that I now live every day—a mother
to fourteen children, ten grandchildren, five dogs, nine goats,
and a small farm. My dreams led me to fame, perhaps fortune,
although somehow in the midst of that, I always just wanted to
reach the very souls of people. I have always wanted to convey a
message; it was just what the message was that was unclear until
now.

Passion, of course, is the driving factor. It is in the needy
children and also in the ambitious. Passion is not just of the heart,
it is put in motion by the mind. It is a doing word, something
that takes root in your heart and propels that desire to become
an action. If we don’t take action, passion dies. It withers away
and becomes bitterness. This happens with children who at a
very early age are abandoned, both physically and emotionally,
and who find the only person who has enough passion to fight
for their life is themselves.

I believe that results in what I call “survival disorder” and
the text books call “attachment or reactive attachment disorder”,
commonly known as RAD or AD. Mostly we associate non-
attachment with reaction which results in the child or adult
being angry, violent, or impatient with younger children and
animals, while being charming to all that are not involved in the


14 | FINDING FRIDAY

role of authority, caretaker or parent, particularly the mother
figure.

I was a very inexperienced foster parent when I first was
exposed to “survival” disorder. I really prefer to call it that
because in every instance I have known, the child was trying to
survive because of the lack of parental care, or interest. In other
words, Mum and Dad, were not doing their job. Now, I do
know and acknowledge that there are documented cases where
attachment disorder or “survival” can kick in when a child is left
in a hospital for a very valid reason when they are very young.
Perhaps the parents are not able to be at their capacity that is
normal for a young child, or one or the other parent is ill and
cannot attend to the infant as they would like to be able to. There
are also many other factors that can influence this disorder that
bring the personality and intellect of the child into question.
There are instances of this disorder when fault cannot be found
and it happens anyway. That is why children in the foster or
adoptive care system should not be moved any more than they
have to. Attachment is important to the point of survival.

Most RAD or AD these days is attributed to the mother,
in particular, being addicted either to drugs, alcohol, or both.
This leaves the child defenseless in the midst of the chaos of
the parent’s lifestyle. Often left without food, or comforting,
they wait until Mom is awake and sober, or not high, so
that their needs can be attended to. The mother figure ends
up being their enemy by default. Even when placed within
the foster home, albeit a loving and caring one, the fight for
survival begins. There is no established trust with any mother,
and the child will push every boundary. Even with the most
patient parent, life becomes almost intolerable. They use every
method of control they can—food, silence, tantrums, bodily
functions, destruction of anything they can get their hands on,
lighting fires, destruction of property, unexplained anger, and
revenge, particularly on smaller children and animals. There
are few counselors or psychologists who specialize in this. The
growing numbers of these children are alarming. They are found
everywhere, all around the world, as well as here in the USA.

In my foster parent years, I experienced several of these


KATE THoMPSoN | 15

children, mostly under the age of four, and found that love
was not enough, and having small animals and babies was not
a good combination. After the first child, who I desperately
wanted to keep, but knew in my heart she needed a different
home, one where she could be the center of attention. I learned
that once recognized, a child with this “survival” instinct needed
a very special home, with few other distractions involved, so
behavior could at least be modified over time. Until Friday, or
Noah as he is commonly known, came, I had never experienced
a teenager with such strong “survival” instincts that he fell into
this category. It took me several months to realize he did indeed
have “survival” disorder. I knew instantly this would be the
greatest challenge in my life, if I survived it.

My knowledge of Noah had been limited to visits with his
adoptive family a couple of times a year. I had never noticed
anything out of the ordinary, but when I was advised he was
being sent back to Africa, an action that was illegal on every
score, I knew our family would get involved. After an initial
family meeting, we all felt that we were maxed out with eight
special needs kids, and Noah’s older sister, who we had established
very quickly had no education. As sweet as she was, as well as
being helpful, I knew Noah was also not educated. That fact in
itself was probably the deciding moment to intervene by calling
Children’s Services, over trying to get his parents to send him to
us. Later, I realized there was no way they would have ever sent
him to us, even if we were willing.

It was the beginning of a journey that I didn’t choose, but
knew that if our family did not step up to, Noah was doomed
to a life in the interior of Liberia, Rivercess. If he was lucky,
he might survive until he was thirty-five, the average life span
in a people with no hope, no education, no infrastructure left,
not enough for even World Vision or another such organization
could go in and help. Only small missionaries with a vision or a
calling to help these needy, desperate people were there. I found
out, not long into the journey, that the church I attend supports
missionaries there, but these churches are few and far between.

I found not only did he have full blown “survival” disorder,
but he was damaged emotionally, maybe beyond repair, severely


16 | FINDING FRIDAY

delayed in education although he was very smart, and tested
intellectually very well. He had no immunizations for school,
a very small vocabulary, no understanding of most things that
we spoke about every day, and absolutely no experience in what
a “mother” or a “father” was. He was definitely angry, silent,
greedy for food to the extent that he would often eat three and
four servings regardless of whether someone had not eaten,
aggressive physically, with both humans and more so animals,
and defiant and unresponsive to correction. My husband and I
knew by now that he had been physically, mentally, and sexually
abused on different levels, but hoped because his older sister
was in the family, that he would at the very least respond to her.

To understand better, you have to realize that both these
children had not been exposed to an American accent, like
kids who go to school every day, even though they had been
in America for four plus years. Their heavy African accents
were hard to understand, throwing a whole other complicated
dimension into the picture. Often I would be trying to explain or
correct a behavior and why it was not acceptable, and find they
didn’t understand more than two or three of the words I had to
say in a sentence. This was confusing, baffling to me, because I
could not understand why someone would adopt children from
overseas, bring them into a new way of life, and not educate
them at least to their surroundings they were now living in.
Then on top of the vocabulary barrier, there was the abuse and
the defensive wall that surrounded him, almost impenetrable, to
try to prove that he was safe here, and we would not abandon,
beat, or abuse him.

Those who have never been involved or even been on the
edge of fostering or adoption of older children do not know that
these kids do not walk through your door and say, “Wow, this
is great. I really love it here, I’m so glad you brought me into
your home.” That is so far from the truth, it is almost the direct
opposite. Noah was no exception. I knew he liked the idea of
being in our home and part of our family, but the actuality
was distressing and uncomfortable for him. He liked the food,
but hated the supervision, the accountability, having to share,
and also the closeness. He hated the inability to hide, keep to


KATE THoMPSoN | 17

himself without another kid or adult, or even his sister asking
questions about his experiences, trying to find how any of us
could help. All of this should have told me he was a “survivor,”
and yet, my experience of this was with very young children,
never with a teenager.

I might add that these children do not appear very lovable,
and yet what they crave the most in their damaged, hidden
hearts, is unconditional love, without any response from them
at all. A hard task for anyone, even when you know what to
expect, because somewhere inside all of us we require praise,
love, acceptance, encouragement, and freedom to be who we
are. All of these things have never been experienced by these
children, these “survivors”, so they are not capable of giving
anything back at all, at least until you prove yourself worthy of
something from them. That may be the tiniest tidbit every six
months if you are lucky. The path is narrow, and strewn with cut
glass, which makes everyone bleed and wonder if they can walk
another step of this journey.

At the time of the writing of this book, because I feel this
story must be told, Noah has begun, and I do mean begun, to
give just a little of himself back, and to respond in a healthier
emotional manner. How long before he is free, free from all
baggage that has been heaped upon his back, beginning with the
death of his mother, then the rejection from his stepmother, to
abandonment from his African father, when he was left in the
orphanage around the age of five? There he experienced the first
sexual and physical abuse, moved happily to adoption, and was
subjected to more of the same abuses, just in different forms,
then rejection and abandonment again. That finally resulted
in him being left alone in Liberia, unable to speak his native
language, in circumstances where he was once again starved
not only from food, but intimacy within a family, who loves
unconditionally to the point where a little boy can feel safe.

We have only begun this journey with Friday, a name that,
“Noah” hates, but one day will see as truly the name he was not
only born with, but owns, along with all the experiences, bad and
good, that came with it. More than once I have almost given up
hope to the point of thinking he had to be removed to another


18 | FINDING FRIDAY

family, or group home. My child psychiatrist has told me on
more than one occasion that if the physical fighting continued,
he would remove him. Yet, somewhere in my soul, mind, or
heart, I know that all of the training I have gone through, along
with all the foster children and their problems that have passed
through our home, and the enormous difficulties our adopted
children had faced and overcome, was the path that led to Noah,
“Friday,” and his wholeness.

I am still to experience his full recovery, but at this moment
in time, have very strong feelings, which is a first I have to
admit, that Friday will become a trusting, vulnerable person
again. One able to love and integrate into our large, impossible,
loving family, that was not chosen by us, but by God. It did
not happen by birth physically, but spiritually, in obedience
to a plan that God asked of us. I can testify without a doubt,
that if I had my “druthers,” I would not have chosen this large,
sometimes overwhelming family, but, I am grateful for each and
every one of them, because I could not imagine living without
one of God’s chosen.

Time Out!

I live with many children, most of whom think they are too old for "time out", but I still have a couple that JUST get into the limit of age that will accept that.  In our years of fostering, we learned you are never too old for "time out".  Adult time out is very important to our parenting skills as well as our sanity.  There is a saying "Insanity is inherited from your kids".   That is very true, unless you take "time out".

There have been SO many times over the last sixteen years, where, we were exhausted, unable to think straight, or parent unless we had a "break" or, using the modern idiom, "time out".  We have dealt with a lot of syndromes, I call it the Alphabet syndrome because they all are called by letters.  Weird, but, that's our world sometimes.  We are dealing right this moment with a multi syndrome child who fast metabolizes her medication, and hates the part that keeps her in check, and us sane, but we learn to exist.

Is existing enough?  No.  A flat NO!  Just because you deal with a difficult child, or maybe it's three or four little children in a row that you thought were all going to be just "by the book", or it's the first baby that didn't go "according" to the book.  A child, or children can rock your life, your career, your personal relationships, and the most important of all, your intimate life with the very person who makes up your family, your spouse, or partner.  Please listen.  If you are aiming at a two partner family life, then two people need to be taking part, and discussing, sharing all aspects of that, including being close as a couple, not just as parents on the same page.

Luckily, both Rog and I are on the same page about our "time out" time.  We regularly have a date, even if it isn't far, doesn't cost much, but, a scheduled date.  We sometimes go to our hot tub, no children allowed, for a date.  Doesn't cost anything, but we get to talk, look up at the stars, see the amazing trees, the river birches that some silly landscaper once told me I should cut down because they made a lot of mess, and talk.  Remember, why we have these kids in our home, and why we love each other, and why we do what we do, as hard as it is, every day.

Don't forget where you started, with that brand new love in your heart, and end up an ember, burned out from not enough "time out".

Just saying about my crowd fund raiser.  I am running out of days.  Would appreciate if you share.  Here is the link.

Better to fail.........than never try at all.

Isaiah was home for Easter, and, even though he is doing really well at Job Corps, he is a bit like the tortoise and the hare.  He so wants to run ahead, even if it means that he trips and loses something on the way.  No matter how much re-assurance he is given, he still seems to see that the cup is half empty, not half full.  Perhaps I can explain it better when I tell you that six months ago his education was at about grade three level.  Now it is a solid sixth grade.  In his eyes, he should be further ahead, because he keeps comparing himself with others who have had more opportunity for education than he has.

But, his view is gradually changing, with the help of his past and present teachers, and of course his family.  When he went there, the prize was the "Trade".  It was a job he could get, move out on his own, be independent and, it would suffice.  The "GED" in his eyes, was not the prize at all, just a good tag along if he could get it, and in his mind that was a huge ask.  Learning is hard when your brain has not been trained to do that.  Mostly it is his comprehension of the English language, and understanding even what his test paper questions really said, has been extremely hard.  When explained, he knows the answer, but comprehending a story, or a question worded slightly different is for Isaiah, a huge mountain to climb.  And, sometimes, he does not want to climb it, it is just too hard.

Then, about a week or so ago, one of his math teachers began to explain the cost of living to his class.  It was like a big boulder fell on his head, and shook his brain awake.  He was shocked, he told me on the way home, to find that his "Trade" might pay him about $30,000.00 a year, but his cost of living might be more than his bring home pay.  A "GED" was starting to look more appealing.  Without it, he cannot go on to higher education, and would be stuck in a lower income bracket maybe forever.  Then on the same trip home, his brother Devin, played a motivational tape about "learning when you are young", perhaps to the point of sacrificing the revered "cell phone", or even worse, the TV, or the X-Box.  The light was finally beginning to come on, and by the time he had thought about all the events, he was motivated.

Why do we see small successes as not enough?  Why do we have to win the race before we run it?  Why do we not stop to enjoy our journey, take the highs with the lows, and reach our full potential.  I know that somewhere in all of this it dawned on me that I do similar things.  Recently, I got an amazing email from the X-Factor.  For those of you who don't know, that is a singing competition run in the fall on TV.  I have this thing that I am never going to give up, so I audition, on line mostly, each year.  A couple of years ago I actually was scammed by a letter of acceptance and was extremely disappointed.  I vowed I would never tell anyone again of even a small success, for fear of, yes, "failure".

Well because of all that I have told Isaiah over the last couple of days, I am going to swallow my own medicine.  Yes, I made it through the first round of on-line auditions, and yes, I may not make it onto the show, but I am proud of my small success, and I am not going to be afraid of failure ever again, or of being embarrassed to say "I didn't make it".  I am going to eat my own words and be proud that I tried.  My advice to me.
For those who follow my blog, but have not seen my crowd fund raiser, here is the link.  I have twenty one days left to reach my goal.  My book, "Finding Friday" is due to be released in the next couple of weeks.  If you feel led to support, thanks, otherwise please share with your friends.