Starling took four of my five children with him to Laurel, and I put Becca Boo to sleep and didn't even know what to DO with myself. I absolutely did NOT want to sleep. (I'm so sick of sleeping, I'd throw it up if it touched my tongue). Watching television is pretty much a crappy experience, since all the people on the tv are blurry fuzzies that go in and out of focus and make my eyes go all twitchy.

I needed to clean my house. I needed to fold the three piles of laundry on my bed. But I didn't take a pain pill today. I didn't take a sleeping pill today. I cleaned and homeschooled my children and wrote letters of recommendation all day. (Which is tricky when you can't see to type. BUT I'm so deprived of blogging I will suffer through squinting and take sixteen breaks if I have to). I also got to visit with my friend. And I did NOT have to cook lunch because Blaine showed up randomly at my house with Domino's pizza. (Shout out to Blaine! Sorry, I don't know your last name! But I like you! A lot).   

In my excitement while eating an apple, because that's the only thing left in my house to eat, I sat down on my piano, and an amazing thing happened. NO ONE started banging on the OTHER END. I wrote a song, lyrics, added a beat, tested out my vocals, FINISHED... (I never FINISH anything. EVER). I was STILL ALONE so I drug out the ole violin, which Starling traded eons ago in exchange for a Dirt Cheap Guitar even though NOONE in our family could play the violin. I played everything Brooklyn has learned on her little pink violin, spiced it up and tried to make a fiddle out of it. Danced a little... And now I'm blogging.

Great things come to those who wait. AND how I have WAITED!!!

I didn't like getting PRK. #1- I refused to read ANYTHING about HOW it is done. #2- I refused to WATCH stupid youtube videos with Starling showing people getting their eye chopped at

I went to get LASIK, but of course, SOME geyser in my gene pool had to donate THIN cornea's. So GREAT, I couldn't GET LASIK, which is the SAME price, less painful, and you LEAVE the same day using your EYES. But, I am ME. And my life HAS to be as complicated and ridiculous AS possible.

I got the surgery in New Orleans, by the way, to add a twist to the INSANELY COMPLICATED. Dr. Singer charges $799 an eye versus the home boys in Hattiesburg. (BUT it's really much more than that since they prescribe like a million meds that cost hundreds of dollars. BC some doctors JUST don't believe in GENERIC). And my friend got his Lasik done there and Starling researched the fire dragon out of all the doctor's and decided to go with Singer.

SO ANYWAY. We haul all SEVEN of us to the eye doctor. We lose Boeing in the midst of me taking the three older kids to go pee. Some random nurse lady asked, "Are ya'll missing a kid?" as we both answered, "No."

Starling got charged an extra fifty bucks AN EYE because we paid with a credit card instead of CASH. (ARE YOU FRICKIN KIDDING ME??)  And then he left me there and took all five kids to the Aquarium.

The people got me right in, set up, and told me I'd be all numb, and all good. They gave me a valium and I popped a squat in the patient spot. That's right before I died and went to Hell.

The doc dropped some numbing drops in my eyes. But he did NOT tie me down. He did, however, tell me to say still. He forgot to add "While I BURN OUT YOUR EYEBALL!!!"

I was just laying there smiling, watching the room spin like a good little girl, when the doc ripped open my eyelids and taped them to my forehead. THEN taped the bottom SOMETHING- cause to my knowledge I've got no bottom lids- to my chin for good measure. I felt nice and awake. I may have even giggled at the thought of my eyes floating away and joining the spinning room since nothing was holding them inside my head anymore.

But all fun ended when some white contraction got stabbed into my eye WHILE I was looking at it.

I forgot to hold still. I forgot to not talk. "YOW WOW WOW!!!!! Aren't you supposed to numb me or something! THAT thing HURTS!!" As my legs try to kick the doctor away- who is OVER and BEHIND my head. Lucky for him, I'm not that flexible.

"Well you ARE having surgery." Is ALL he said.

"Ya need to LIE STI-YILL." said the nurses in their thick New Orleans' accents.

"But his burning out my eyes!!"

It smelled like burnt, it felt like burnt, and when he said, "All right other eye." I almost DIED.

I started shaking like a Chihuahua stuck in a balloon truck. I couldn't lay still. I couldn't stop shaking. My legs WANTED to be with my face for comfort. I don't know why. Maybe I was getting in the fetal position. Who knows. I was drugged and being tortured.

Then they told me I was done, wrapped my head in medical tape and some clear plastic WORSE than aviator sun shades on my face, and sent me to the waiting room to be picked up.

The doctor did say, "Yay! Can you see me? Can you see the clock?" But I don't think I answered because I could only see a blur and a blur and I was pretty sure I was going to join the blur called the floor at any given second.

So I tried to look at my phone to call for help, but I couldn't see anything on my phone. So I just sat there until Russ, my brother and law, came to get me. He took me to get my pain killers filled because, when I showed the nurse my left over pain pills from birthing my children she laughed in my face and said, "Honey- that ain't gonna be enough." So I got the $60 pain pills.

And I ate some pills and slept for a very long time. I don't really remember anything except my phone getting pushed into the bathtub and not really caring because I couldn't see it anyway. And apparently, even though I couldn't see to text, I still attempted texting random people from Starling's phone and he got some interesting calls in response.

I got extremely angry, like ferociously angry when I was awake. Starling said maybe I was having pain killer withdrawals. I didn't want to take them anymore because I don't like being out of my head. I have enough time staying in my head as it is. But I kept getting unruly, and Starling kept popping those pills in my mouth and sending me back to La La Land. And somehow my kids all survived. The house didn't, but let's be honest. My house is at war with five kids. Does any house stand a chance? And with the guard unconscious sending out random rants and threats about burning people's eyes out like mine? No. No chance at all.

And last night was horrific.

Absolutely terrifying. I was laying in Brooklyn's room with Brooklyn waiting for her to fall asleep. Boeing and Bry climbed onto the bed and fell asleep, too. I was just laying there thinking I would NEVER fall asleep when one of Brooklyn's talk toys starting talking. One talked and made another toy sound off. I was silently thinking what a funny blog that would make when a bag next to the toys started moving. I could see the bag quite clearly from the moonlight. I sat up and watched the bag move, move. I waited to see what was going to come out.

And out comes a GINORMOUS RAT/PIG! l think they are called a Newt? There is one at Kamper Park, I think. I about touched the ceiling. In my terror and panic, I tried to wake up Brooklyn and show it to her so I could tell her it was her new pet to see her freak, but she wouldn't wake up. And then it started coming towards the bed. I screamed. And woke up screaming.

And I was in MY bed. And there was no rat. But I didn't wake up enough. I still didn't know I was dreaming, though the fact that Brooklyn's room was a chicken coop should have cued me. And if THAT didn't alarm me, then when Dr. Oz, who, in my dreamy reality, had performed my EYE surgery, showed up to GET the Newt, I should have known something was aloof.

But no, I was 100% sure I was NOT dreaming and was wondering if Dr. Oz even had a license to perform eye surgery. (I'd probably gone to one of his shows where he tells you how eating a grapefruit helps your gastrointestinal track perform better while making your hair OH so SHINY) when he was like, any questions? And I said, "Yeah I can't see? Can you burn off my eyes?" And he was like- "i'm doctor OZ, right? I can do anything! Here give me that cucumber over there and I'll show you how to make you see WHILE curing foot fungus!)"

So anyway- Dr. Oz is standing by the Newt telling me he's going to kill it.

"Yeah! But not in here! Gross!" And then the Newt rubbed up on Ozzie's leg like some kind of house cat.

"Oh my gosh? Is he a NICE rat??" The doctor, understandably, looks at me like I'm slurping water from a sewage lagoon.

"Who cares? It's a rat."

So I go into this HUGE childhood story about RATS. (I'm surprised Dr. Phil didn't show up).

"I remember being in my Grandma's Rosie's big block house that she painted blue and pink after asking her two grandkids that were in elementary what color she should paint her house. One day in her laundry room I saw a tail. It looked like a giant fat, round bald pink snake. It was a RAT. A real RAT. Mice don't bother me. They are mostly little cute, fluffy things. And rat's might not bother me as much, but for that AWFUL TAIL.

But opossums; they don't bother me. One time my Grandma Rosie and I were walking down the road picking up cans before that was weird; (oh wait that has ALWAYS been weird). She was wearing her hand made dress she made out of a dollar store bed sheet and we were singing "Glory, Halelujia" when I saw a freshly dead opossum in the road. My grandma, like all normal sane humans, naturally removed all road kill off the road. She'd use a stick or a shovel. Always one to help the traffic flow a little easier. I watched her push the thing with a stick and saw movement in the opossum's abdomen area.

"Hu. The thangs got babies in her pouch." And my grandma continued to scoot the carcass off the road. "We can't just LEAVE the babies! They'll die!" I was pretty young, but old enough to know I could take care of a litter of opossums. My grandma, who thinks that opossums are one of worst parasites to graze her chicken loving self, reluctantly let me gather all the babies, take them home and bottle feed them. And she let me keep them until they looked like normal rodents, not just little bold jelly beans.

Yeah I grew attached to those dang opossums, which was unfortunate."

At this point Dr. Oz gets his first word in. "Why is that?"

"Because, after all that love and time I put into keeping those varmints alive, my grandma fed them to her cats. Every last one."

"Okay," says Dr. Oz.

"Now that you've returned from left field- SEVERAL fields OVER- I can dispose of the current rat, despite 

the fact he doesn't have a grossly long tail."

Then the newt rat looked at me. We made eye contact. As Dr. Oz was shewing it out of the bedroom/chicken coop. He was going to ax it.

"That brings me to a story about my grandma-"

"NO NO. Save it."

I fervently told him that I don't like things chop blocked in front of me because my grandma chopped a rooster's head off in front of me and it flew around me and got blood on my shoe, all the while heis head was just dangling there by a strand of skin. Traumatized me.

"You need to shoot it. Its more humane."

Then Dr. Oz reached down to grab the thing and it all but purred.

"Is it soft? Like is his hair silky like Brooklyn's or stiff like a black lab's coat?" (Like this might be the determining factor of the rodent's life).

"And does he stink? Or smelll woodsy?"

I'd decided to keep it as a pet at this point. Seriously.

THEN it crawled in bed next to Brooklyn. And it was by my foot.

This gave me a panic but I was trying to decide if I was going to let the rat live and sleep in bed with my children, or been shot. (I really am an all or nothing girl. Which is why I'm not allowed to have a horse. Starling said he is NOT sharing a bed with a horse).

Then, it BIT ME!

Well, in real life. In my real bed. BRIGHTON had GRABBED my foot. AND In REAL life, I woke up and the RAT still had HOLD of my FOOT. I ALMOST kicked Brighton's head into Starling's closet. I was scrambling, son, I haven't moved that fast since somebody yelled Doughnut.

My ruckus woke up the other passengers on our bed and I never did get a good sleep after that.

I'm hoping for a nice quiet, dreamless, sleep. But, the dream inspired me to write a book series named, "Grandma Rosie."

  

Psycho Sunday

I am going to blog. If I can stop TWITCHING long enough to TYPE.

You KNOW your Sunday is going to be FABULOUS when your husband leaves you first thing in the morning to go fix a sewage leak for his renter. Leaves you with five kids. To get ready for church. BY YOURSELF.

I was NOT going to let Starling's absence stop me from getting to church on time. If anything, getting the children fed and clothed ran smoother because I wasn't telling Starling what to do every 3.4 minutes to "help" me.  I had all the clothes laid out and dressed the little darlings with lightening speed. I got them loaded into the Expedition, buckled up, and mentally prepared to leave when, OH- The KEYS are missing. Who drove last? Well, DUMB question. If "I" would have driven last, the keys would be EXACTLY where they GO. But NO. Starling drove. And I looked in EVERY pair of dirty blue jeans, every jacket, on every "drop and go" surface.... NO KEYS. Because this is a DAILY occurrence with my husband, I got livid IMMEDIATELY. I called him. FOUR times. No answer. He was APPARENTLY too busy being covered in RENTER poop to answer MY emergency.

Did I mention I was wearing tall hills? No because it was irrelevant up until the RUNNING, RUNNING, RUNNING through the house. I can't RUN in hills, I can barely WALK in them, so I was mentally yelling at Starling with every TWIST of my dang ankle.

I finally GAVE up, slammed open the car door, and gave the orders in a deep, FIRM, partially psychotic voice, "I want you to unbuckle your seat belt, RUN to the van, REBUCKLE as FAST as you're little body can buckle, and WITHOUT talking. GO!"

Surprisingly, 8 little legs bolted for the van. Boeing, of course, needed assistance. The Expedition, or commonly named Gas Sucker,  is fairly tall. It has the little step up ledge to assist entry and exiting. I climbed on the ledge. I unbuckled Boeing and tripped on the ledge. Because I'm a total and complete klutz and have next to NO coordination, I am used to falling off the ledge. Unfortunately, when I tried to do my normal "leg spread and body catch," my legs wouldn't spread because my skirt was holding my knees together. SO. As you can only IMAGINE, I gracefully busted my BUTT. I slipped on my hills, slammed my hip on the side of the car and skidded to a halt once my butt found the cement driveway, and NOT before I mangled my hair- do across the car seat.

SO. I arrived at church a few minutes late, with fury burning in my eyes, bruises making walking painful, and a head full of tangled up hairspray. With FIVE kids in tow.

I found a pew. We sat in the pew. But only for half a millisecond. Boeing immediately started yelling, "Wan DOW-WON! Wan DOW-WON!!!" Breonna stood up and started checking out what the people in front of us were doing, Kolten did something that cause Brighton to start crying, then climbed UNDER the pew for good measure, while the Sacrament was being prepared. My nerves reached a new level of tension. I was snatching children up like a burglar in a jewelry store. "Sit!" I kept hissing. "STOP!!!" I kept whisper yelling.

I turned around and Boeing was HALF way to the front of the church, STILL during SACRAMENT. (Sacrament in an LDS church is similar to Communion in other churches).  I hobbled as fast as my knobby legs could waddle, tripping over myself, my shoe falling off halfway to Boe. I grabbed the giggling one year old who was thrilled about the fun new game he'd engaged me in, and shoved a banana in his mouth to get him to SHUT UP while the prayer was being said. MIS-TAKE.

In voices one might use to yell to an outfielder on one's baseball team, Breonna and Kolten started, "I WANT a BANANA!!!!"

"NO.SIT!" I mouthed with as much FORCE as a SILENT voice can shout.

"But WHY?" asked Breonna.

"BUT I'm HUN-GRAY!" protested Kolten.

Despite the fact I fed them GOBS of food RIGHT before we walked through the church doors.

While I was trying not to have a full blown conniption, Boeing grabbed the banana from my hands and shoved the entire thing at his head. He mashed and mushed until no part of his upper body was UN-banana-d. The bread was passed. Then the water. Kolten grabbed several waters and put them back where people could re grab them. I tried to remove the cups and dispose of them all the while holding back Boe, Breonna, and Kolten who were acting like taking the sacrament was synonymous with BUFFET.   I threw packs of crackers at the kids and pressed my finger to my lips until it left an indention.

About 15 minutes after the first speaker spoke, Starling texted me to see if I'd found the keys yet. That just made me want to smack him.

I turned to wipe Breonna's nose, and reached back for Boeing. He was gone. Vanished. In less than TWO seconds. In the time it took me to look left then right, back then forwards, Bro. Hinton, who was speaking, said, "This must be a Johnson baby." He'd already made his way to the pulpit.

Brad Kelley, a mercifully DEAR friend of mine, looked at me. I gave him the eyes of a pleading squirrel about to get snatched by a hawk. I was mentally saying, "PLEASE- save my child. I am about to die." (If not from a predator, than from severe nerve damage). He grabbed him for me. And kept him. And when Boeing started crying to come BACK to me, dear Elizabeth carried him out until he fell asleep. And I didn't want him back. I couldn't HANDLE him back. I was in OVER my HEAD. VERY DEEP OVER my head. I was swimming in blue jean overalls with steel toe boots.

I dropped the kids off to their unsuspecting teachers for Sunday School, trance like, and grabbed a vacuum. I sucked up half a pound of ground in the carpet crackers. Brad KEPT Boeing, and I sat in my Primary room sucking up oxygen and breathing out carbon dioxide in slow motion. I needed to look over my lesson for the next hour. (Yes, our church is 3 hours. Sacrament, Sunday School, and in my case Primary because I'm in the primary presidency. It's the class where all children 3-11 go third hour). I did my second hour duties. Kind of. But the hour break from my children wasn't enough to prepare me for them again.

Breonna. Was. AWFUL. If you can picture a Jack Russel pup on speed.... bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce...   Or donkey on Shrek. "Pick me! ME! ME! ME!" And after she was "picked" to help, "Pick me! MY TURN!!! WHY AREN'T you PiCKING ME AGAIN??!!"

No matter how many times I said, "EVERYONE has to get a turn before you can go again...", nothing consoled her. Tantrum. Tantrum.

She answered every question before the question was asked. Ran to the front of the room every 2 seconds, and would NOT sit still.

When primary ended people lined up to console me like I'd just experienced a death in my family.

As soon as we walked into our house, Breonna said, "CAN we have CANDY now for being SOOO GOOD!!!??"

I walked away. I just had to walk away. Starling came home. I told him, "Your turn." And I shut myself in my room.

Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow has to be better. I'm doing really good about going to the gym everyday to get my two hours of child care in. I mean workout in. 

The new additions

I'm still torn up about my Conner. He went to VISIT his non biological grandparents, and when it was time to come home, to my house, the social worker said he would just stay with them because "that they have the brother."

But, I'm still praying that God's will be done concerning my little man, and I have faith that He'll get done what needs to be done. (And I will drop everything and DO anything to assist in THAT, if need be... which I hope I get the opportunity to do)!

IN THE MEANTIME- I got a phone call from a quite stressed out social worker needing placement for two "very hyper, probably ADHD" children. EEK. For the FIRST time in my life, I said, "Let me talk to my husband and call you back." (You know it's bad when I don't just SURPRISE him. When he reads it on FB).  

"Two more kids is too crazy. We need to have ONE kid at a time. And if the social worker is already TELLING you they are nuts, you can't handle them. You know they always sugar coat things."

I nodded in agreement, relieved that Starling said no, so I could tell the social worker, "I absolutely want to take them, but MY husband... he's just not the saint I am..."

 "Let's pray about it." That would give me the ultimate OUT.

So we did. Brooklyn, who had come in on the conversation joined us.

"Oh... how do you feel about taking them?" I asked.

"Fine," he sighed.

"Me too," I muttered with a inward shutter.

"I am SOO EXCITED TO HAVE A SISTER!!!" Was Brooklyn's response.

So in they came. Like a nuclear explosion. Within two minutes of their entry my house, which we CLEANED before they came, had self imploded. It had literally thrown up ANYTHING within reach of a five year old. ON a STOOL. Including blankets, storage, etc.

Within 3 hours Brooklyn's head was bleeding from being slashed with a toy sword and Boeing had a bloody nose. (I was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog about to eat people and Starling, the most patient man on planet Earth, had a twitch and was clenching and unclenching his fists, while trance talking "Not going to work. This is NOT going to work").

Let's just say... GOD and I had a LOOOOOOONG talk.

The next day was much better. We went to church in Jackson, attended my nephew's baptism, then played with cousins. Nothing TOO insane happened. Except the house imploding. Again.

Monday, while the kiddos went with their social worker for a doctor's appointment, I performed the single most important act of my cleaning career.

I bagged, canned, boxed EVERY SINGLE TOY my kids own. Seriously. And I stuck them ALL in the school room. Which, by the way, is LOCKABLE! Then I vacuumed up the mounds of crackers CRUNCHED into the carpet (despite the fact I do not allow food or drinks AWAY from the kitchen table) and when the children got home, we had a little chit chat.

AND things have been a MILLION times better. If they would LIKE to play with something, I get it out of the school room. If they would like something ELSE, they return to me the CLEANED up toys, and I give them something new.

If anyone breaks the rules of the house: No Hitting, No Standing on the kitchen table, No Pushing, No Holding the puppy upside down, by one leg, or pinching it with pliers, No leaving the doors wide open, No throwing food, No stabbing the table with forks, No drawing artwork on the walls, etc. They stick their cute little nose in the corner. And a timer is set. The corner gets used. A LOT. But it takes the stress off me. I no longer have to get angry. I don't have to figure out a punishment. NO smiley face and Time-out.

"What happens when you dump your sister's cereal on her head?"

TRAMATIC, "I-I-I go to da COOORNEEEER...." Wailing, gnashing of teeth.

"Yup. Get there."

And Starling and I decided Kolten needed a push in the right direction. So we named him "Mr. Careful Man." (Since he is reckless and out of control). We told him stories about "Mr. Careful Man" and he now walks around saying, "Look! I bein' careful! Cuz I Mr. Careful Man!" And the girls and boys have competitions (between themselves- not provoked by ME) on who can keep their rooms the cleanest. (The boys have NEVER won. Bless their hearts). But the girl's room is currently immaculate! They even made their bed.   

I have a little dry erase board that has all the kids' names on it. When they clean their room, they get to draw, under their name, a SMILEY FACE! (Wow- I know. Pulling out the Big Guns). When they finish eating AT the TABLE, and take their bowl to the sink, wipe the table and chair and FLOOR, they get to draw another SMILEY FACE! (You would be AMAZED at the things I'm able to get my children to do for a dry erase marker to draw a circle with some dots). And periodically, when the kids do great things to help me or on their own, I reward them. (You guessed it- with a SMILEY FACE)! And when they get FIVE smiley faces- they get to pick something from the treat box. So. "Congratulations! You cleaned your room, kitchen, living room, bathroom, Mommy's room, and yard! Here's a hershey's kiss. ENJOY!"

The other thing the kids absolutely LOVE is high fives and KISSES. Kolten said "thank you" and, since it's something we are working on, I said, "Oh! You said thank you! That makes me so happy I have to give you a kiss!" My five little darlings, YES Boeing included, said "thank you" over and over until my kisser was bruised.

Kolten, who came here rough and tough, says, "M-Mrs. Wendi, I gonna share my crackers with Boeing and you have to give me a KISS!" And then he grins and acts like it's the most humiliating experience of his 3 year old life to have me kiss his cheek.  

Now, if I can only get the food situation under control.. We normally buy groceries once every week and a half or so. Or longer. We have gone full blown grocery shopping twice. THIS WEEK. We need a separate fridge JUST to hold milk. I've never seen kids put away so much food. And so OFTEN.

"Okay. Here's your third helping of Lasagna and 5th glass of water."

"Thank you! When I finish eating this can I have a bowl of cereal? I'm still hungry."

"Here's your second bowl of cereal."

"Thanks! When is snack time?"

SO. That is my new project. Figure out how to stop LIVING in the KITCHEN. It is my LEAST favorite place in the whole HOUSE, after all.

When the social worker told me that the therapist recommended the kids be placed in a "therapeutic" home on Monday, I was relieved. "So they'll be with me like two weeks tops?" The sw said, "They'll be with you until you say, 'I've had enough; come get them!'" I smiled thinking, "So... less than two weeks."

BUT. They have grown on me. And on Starling. They have made AMAZING progress in the 6 days they have been here. And they have been SO receptive to learning. Breonna, (yes another B) especially, LOVES scripture and prayer time. She found a bell and said, "I found the Holy Ghost! Listen! It's that still small voice!" We explained that the Holy Ghost lives inside of you.

So tonight Breonna said, "I know that the Holy Ghost is inside of my heart so he can bertect me while I'm sleeping!" Kolten chimed in, "A-And he's inside MY heart TOO! I know b-because I can feel my heart beeping!"

And when we talked about "blessings," Breonna said, "Like it's a blessing you adopting us!" And Kolten said, "yeah! you is nice! I want to stay with you, too!" And we had to have the talk about how they get to stay with me until their daddy can get them. And how he loves them so much, etc. (THAT is the hardest part about fostering. I feel like I can't make a big enough difference by JUST fostering. And I hate sending them back to a bad situation).

And they LOVE doing school. Much more than my bio kids. They have an intense desire to learn, which is terrific since Breonna is five and doesn't know her alphabet. (She was simply never taught). But she's a super fast learner and loves Brooklyn to teach her. (And Brooklyn, as you can imagine, LOVES an eager pupil). Brooklyn reads TWICE as much since Breonna says, "Brooklyn! You are reading! You are doing it!" 

And then, Brooklyn will read a sentence and Breonna will repeat the sentence. "You did it, Breonna! You are learning to read just like me!"

Kolten and Bry get along, also. (When they aren't punching each other in the stomach, anyway). Kolten always asks, "Where my little buddy go?" They both like to play outside, which, for me is FANTASTIC. If only they'd STAY out and not flap the door like a fly swatter.  

The kid's dad will get them back when his bond gets reduced. Or when grandma can pass a drug test. So, unless something changes, we are keeping them until then. I love my little spastic, overflowing with laundry and crumbs, crazy life. Except when I don't.  

Dream Drama

Okay. Am I the only freak that totally takes dreams to the next level? Last night I woke up FURIOUS at Starling. I mean, CRAZY livid. So angry was I, that I attempted kicking him out of my bed. (And I don't mean saying, "Starling. I am angry! I want you to sleep on the couch!") I mean- I woke up and his arm was touching me and I took both my feet and started kicking the crap out of his back trying to make him FALL out of my bed.

After awhile of doing this, and Starling NOT budging, I realized that Starling had, in actuality, NOT tried to sell my little fluffy Cocomo puppy to some crazy dog lady for $150 bucks. While we were living in my Grandma's house. It was only a dream. Then I was relieved that I hadn't ACTUALLY beat him with a frying pan and told him, "If I NEVER talk to you AGAIN, it will STILL be TOO soon!!!" And I didn't set his four wheeler shop on fire. THAT was all just a dream, too. Can I blame that on vitamins??

 And as soon as I fell asleep again, I dreamed we were living in our old house. And I told Starling NOT to hang the empty hangers in his closet. HANG them in the laundry room where they go. And that fart head HUNG the empty hanger in his closet anyway, as if he didn't have some dumbo ears to hear. I grabbed our wedding picture and slammed it over his head.

Luckily, when I punched him in real life, it hurt my hand and woke me up. I think I'm having some serious unresolved marital issues. Starling might need to watch out. I'm just glad those were the only dreams I had last night. Sometimes I dream Starling is talking to some giggling bimbo on the phone. And I don't get UN-Pissed when I wake up. I can hold a grudge about something I "dreamed" happened for like 3 days. And Starling can't really figure out how to apologize for something he never actually did. And I can't seem to find a way for him to make it up to me, even though he has nothing to make up FOR. So I mostly try to dream about beating robbers and politicians. But. I can't always control those crazy dreams of mine. So I think for Valentine's Day I'll ask for a punching bag. And maybe a dart board. 

Breakfast of champions

It’s no secret. My cooking skills are up there with New Orleans’ elevation level. I decided I needed some true and tried gourmet recipes. So, I started Pinterest stalking. If I stalked you, consider yourself a good cook. (Or a good pinner of yummy looking food).

I made a meal calendar. I listed ALL meals. Breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner, desserts… I was going to go BIG! A food revoLUTION!! I was to start TODAY!

I saddled up this morning. I had the determination of a half-starved cheetah with a wounded elephant in my sights. I lured the children into the play room and, when I thought they were encompassed in their game of Conner and Brighton saving Brooklyn, a princess, stuck in the top of the tallest tower (or bunk bed), I tiptoed to the kitchen. I gathered my ingredients with zeal and turned on the stove eyes. I HAD this.

Before I could crack open the dang kitchen DRAWER, in TRAMPLES a HERD of children.

 “MOM is that EGGS?!” asked Brooklyn as she looked at the EGGS in my hand. I didn’t feel the need to answer her question. She obviously KNEW the answer. She can name practically all animals, tell you if it is a mammal, reptile, amphibian, insect, bird, arachnid, etc. and the climate in which they live. She KNOWS what an egg is. BUT, the question, apparently, bared repeating. Again. AND AGAIN.

“YES! These are eggs!”

“MOM! IS that BREAD!?”

I took a very DEEP breath, trying to focus on the task at hand.

“Attention little DARLINGS that I LOVE! Mommy is COOKING us breakfast. On the menu is French 

toast and eggs! NOW, I can’t focus if there is too much noise.”

Boeing thought that a fine invitation to ATTACH himself to my leg. Aggressively. I untangled him best I could, because I was covered in French toast batter; mostly raw egg sliding slimily through my fingers. But, no matter where I PUT Boeing, he CHARGED his way back to his perch on my leg. And NOT meekly. VERY OPINIONATEDLY. And Brighton and Co Co excitedly started dragging my bar stools across the TILE floor. (Nails on a chalk board ring a bell in the uttermost unnerved part of your brain)?

“WOE! WOE! NO moving the bar stools! Let’s put them back. No.. NO! We are NOT climbing on top of the counter. Get OUT of the sink! BRY! BOYS! Boeing, GET off my LEG! Brooklyn, stop crying! I didn’t mean to hurt your feeling by telling you I needed to focus. BOYS! STAAAAAAARRRRRRLIIIIIIINGGGG!!!”

Well. Starling didn’t come in a reasonable amount of time. (He never does). And so, immediately, the fact that I was standing there waving my battered hands at two boys laughing HYSTERICALLY, a bawling Brooklyn, and a baby wailing on my FOOT, became STARLING’S FAULT. For not foreseeing this moment and being on the phone with a client instead of helping me control the masses. (Eh- men are, at this moment, thinking that’s illogical & berserk reasoning. Women are saying, “EXACTLY!”).

I rinsed my hands, drug the boys to the table where I told them to STAY PUT, popped a bottle in Boeing’s mouth, tried to reason with a sniffling broken-hearted 4 year old DRAMA queen, and attempted to rescue the burning eggs and toast.

“I WANT EGGS!!!” Brighton started whining.

“Just a minute baby. Almost ready.”

Something happened. Who knows? Co Co looked at his cup. Brooklyn said she got the middle seat. Never can tell. But Brighton lost it.

“Mamamama I want EGGS….” How he correlated his dire situation to eggs missing from his life, I don’t know.

I dumped the toast on plates, threw eggs at them, put a vitamin, and a chunk of banana on their plates.

“HERE you GO!!” I said shrilly.

“MO-OM?! WHY did you put my EGGS touching my TOAST?! I just don’t LIKE when they TOUCH!”

“I wan-ned a BWOOO pork!”

“I wan CHOC-WIT MI-YILK!!”

I just stood there. I blinked about twenty five times. I breathed in. I breathed out. I held my breath. Then I made a volatile mistake. I parted my lips.

“BROOKLYN SOLICE (pronounced SO-leeece) JOHNSON!!!! YOU say THANK YOU MOM FOR MAKING ME FRENCH TOAST! THANK YOU MOM FOR MAKING ME EGGS! THANK YOU MOM FOR MY VITAMIN AND BANANA! YOU ARE A TERRIFIC HUMAN AND I ASPIRE TO BE JUST LIKE YOU WHEN I GROW UP!!!”

Then I turned on the boys. “YOU SAY THANK YOU MOMMY FOR GIVING ME A FORK. AND YOU SAY, ‘MOMMY MAY I PLEASE HAVE SOME CHOCOLATE MILK WHEN YOU HAVE A SECOND TO BREATHE.”

That obviously made everything better.  

But Starling DID show up, then. When breakfast was ready and all. Not that I let him eat.

“Will you PLEASE cut up their toast for them.” (It wasn’t a question).

Starling scarfed his breakfast and disappeared like shirts at a Mardi Gras parade. Brighton decided he was DONE, so he climbed down from his chair. “I WAN BRY’S!” And suddenly, as Co Co’s hands grabbed Bry’s plate, Brighton was suddenly NOT DONE. In fact, he was RAVISHED. And between the two of them they ate 3 MORE toasts. And just when I finished cooking and made MY plate, Brooklyn decided she wanted more toasts. So I gave her one of mine and had to make a decision. I decided I only wanted one toast and no eggs. I was too tired to eat by that point, anyway.

No sooner had I sat down at the table, a WAIL of horror sounded. I turned to see Co Co grabbing his stomach. He had one of the tiny little plastic chairs that Brighton and him carry around the house, for some ABSURB enjoyment of hauling and climbing, and he’d somehow tripped and the plastic leg had scraped his abdomen in a BIG way.

“Oh my GOSH!” I jumped up and wrapped him up in my arms, trying to get a look at the scrape without freaking Co Co out.

“WHAT happened?” Bry kept asking. “Did you get SHOT?!” Now where in the HECK did he learn about getting “shot”??

“I need BAND AIDE!!” Co Co actually didn’t need a band aide, but I got a ginormous one and stuck it on him just the same. That made everything better.

I got everyone calmed down and settled and FINALLY got to eat. I was GLAD I’d only had the ONE toast left to eat. Since it was COLD, soggy, and nasty.

Starling asked me to update our storage payments for the units we own. Co Co and Boeing were piled up in my bed watching me type on the computer. Brooklyn and Brighton were playing Barbies in Brookie’s room.

My friend came to buy my old camera and I went to greet her at the door. ONLY for her to call to my attention my new couch decorations.

Brighton was feverishly SCRUBBING a spot on the couch saying trancelike, “I gotta cwean dis up. I just weally have to cwean dis up.”

I took a moment to survey my living room. Cinnamon so carefully distributed in a lovely glaze over every piece of furniture I own. And carried on to the fireplace. And little mounds of cinnamon were perfectly centered on EACH of my 4 window seals. I walked to the kitchen. Every single counter had a gleeful little trail of Bry’s cinnamon parade. And in the middle of the kitchen was my giant, formerly full, vanilla extract busted in a cuzillion pieces.

Once I finished cleaning the kitchen. The living room. The CHILD. My extravagant resolve for cooking sunk down with the shards of broken glass at the bottom of my trash can.

We ate cereal for lunch. AND dinner. Tomorrow is a new day. It can’t exactly be WORSE.     

the incident

I keep getting asked about Foster Care and what’s it like. Well, obviously I love it or I would have made up an excuse to quit. Like, “Sorry. I already have 3 kids under 4.” But I am a person that doesn’t feel like I’m doing my part until I’m stretched like a rubber band. And that’s what makes me happy. Knowing I’m being 100% utilized. Not to mention the exciting joys of children. From the tender little expressions of love, like Brooklyn bringing home her M&M’s and telling Co Co and Bry, “sit down, guys! I saved ALL the blue ones for YOU because I know that blue is your favorite color.” And the boys taking turns bringing Brookie gifts because she’s a princess. And my little men asking me to dance with them, sing with them, put make up on me, asking Brookie to paint their toenails blue. They are precious. I love to listen to them pray. Especially Bry. His prayers usually go like this.

“Heb’n’ly Pawder. Thankful dis da-ay. Dat Co Co tooked my mon-ter tru-yuck. Dat I told him no. Dat Co Co told me ‘ain’t’ and dats not ni-yice. Dat Daddy can’t just leeb me to go work. Dat mommy can’t just tell me I can’t sleep in da ni-yite ni-yite. Name Jesus Chri-yist, Amen!”

Brooklyn’s prayers are heart- felt and bring tears to my eyes almost every night. (Either tender tears or tears from holding in laughter).  “I’m just SOOOO thankful that daddy got back to land and that… no alligators got to bite on him… and that Co Co is living with us and that please, Heavenly Father, help
Bry and Co Co learn to share. It just really hurts my little feelings when they take Chark Chark and Pretty from me (her stuffed dogs). And PLEASE, please. Help Boeing to be soft. He is just too rough.”

And Co Co. “Heb Pawder. Tank day. Tank mommie. Tank Daddy. Tank Bwookwen, Tank Bry, tank Bo-ee. Be ni-yice. Otter mommie. AYE-MEN!”

 My little 9 month old baby, Co Co’s brother, got moved to live with his grandmother. I won’t pretend that it’s easy to see my babies go, but I pray often and do my part to ease my emotional burdens. I wrote down EVERYTHING I loved about MM (my 9 mo old). I described how he couldn’t sit up, couldn’t hold his own bottle, couldn’t clap, couldn’t talk, couldn’t roll over when he came to my house.  Then I described each of his milestones as they happened rapidly. I wrote down his likes and dislikes. His favorite sleeping position, his favorite foods, things that make him laugh, etc. Then I sent a copy of that and an 8x10 pic I took of MM to the grandma. And that gave me closure.

And the other question. HOW do you DEAL with SEEING the birth parents??

Well. This is my 3^rd go round with foster care and my first time to meet a birth parent. I think there is good in all people and you have to do your part to bring out the good. (Otherwise you’ll be like the other foster mom I met that was going off about “all the little brats” and how she can’t believe her home is under investigation AGAIN while she’s doing the STATE of MS an ACT of KINDNESS. All the while adding Call of Duty to an 8 year old foster son’s Christmas list).

The first time I met Mom, I was anxious beyond belief. I assumed I would be hated and demonized. And I'm sure the Mom felt the same way. If my kids were taken from me, I’d lie, steal, cheat, rob, murder- ANYTHING to get MY BABIES back. So, in that mode of thinking, I decided she was treating me like a saint. And I told her as much. I told her I can’t even imagine being where she is, and while it isn’t much comfort, I wanted her to know I LOVE her children and they have been an absolute blessing to our family. I let her know quickly that I didn’t think I was all that and a bucket of chicken in the mommy department. I told her about my mediocre skills in the kitchen and some of the funny stories that go along with that. Then I gave her a hug and told her that we pray for her every night. (And not in a belittling way).

The next visit went TERRIFIC. I took Mom 8x10 pics of both her boys. (They look SOOoo handsome)! And she was so pleasant and grateful. She said, “You are so kind!” Which meant the world to me. I don’t much like being hated. And she played with her boys and loved on them. And we talked like old friends. And she asked Co Co if he liked living with “Mommy’s friend.” And she gave me a picture of her and Co Co that I put in his room. And she brought me stuff for the boys. She told me all her friends were asking if I was a total Bee. And she said, “I told them, ‘No! She is actually a normal person! Like someone I’d go have drinks with!” And despite the fact that I’ve never touched alcohol in my life, I was sincerely happy to hear her say that. It ranks up there with top compliments I’ve been given.

And the next time I go I’m giving her a CD of all the pics of taken of them. The candid funny ones. AND have I got a story to tell on CO CO!

So, the potty training has its ups and downs. I’ve basically told my boys, if the pee goes ANYWHERE other than the PANTS, it’s a GO!

WELL. Today at church I was yapping my gums, something “I” rarely do. (Lightening, do not zap me. It WAS a JOKE). Boeing is walking like a champ now, so he’s pretty much going to be the death of me. I’ll need to invest in a leash immediately. But I’d managed to get all four of my hooligans in the same vicinity. They each plastered themselves against a glass door and were watching the cars drive by. I, thankfully, was watching them out the corner of my eye while I RAILED on Starling and Aaron about their exaggerations of their little adventure in the Everglades. (Which they insist the story I heard was a MILD version; the mere CLIFT NOTES. –well MY adventure that “I” had while they were gone for 6 days has YET to be TOLD).

I saw movement and turned as the church door opened and Bry and Conner ran out. I was on their heels. “What are you- OHH!” Co Co turns to face me with his weenie hanging out of his pants. He has caught the attention of EVERYONE in the foyer watching wide eyed for the next segment of “Wendi’s World; Season 1.”

“Put that thing AWAY!” I tell him as he simultaneously lets loose. RIGHT in the MIDDLE of the WALKWAY, under the OVERHANG!  ON the CONCRETE! RIGHT in the MIDDLE of our congregation trying to LEAVE. This kid starts peeing like a keg of water that just lost his cork. It may be that time was altered, given my awkward circumstance, but I SWEAR the kid peed for 11 minutes. And I’m just staring at Starling, who’s watching, mouth agape from inside. I’m flailing my arms at him like he can perform some sort of miracle and make Co Co stop peeing mid flow. Starling FINALLY, in his Starling Johnson time frame of SLOTH, reached us and said, “No! You can’t just-“ and I stopped him short because Co Co was SOOO excited that he just peed OUTSIDE and NOT in his underwear.

“Let’s try to pee in the grass next time, buddy. Good job, though!” and I shoved all the kids at Starling who was shaking his head mumbling, “Talk about desecrating the church…”

In my moment of confusion and utter humiliation, I filled up Boeing’s bottle with water and dumped it on top of the pee. So the desecration was, at least, diluted. OOOOOOHHHH the joys of CHILDREN!!   

Potty Training

I have been blog deprived for LONG ENOUGH. Seriously, when a girls gotta vent, a girl BETTER vent or next thing you know her husband will be missing an eyebrow. (Passive aggressiveness MAY run in my family). And maybe just plain aggressiveness.

 I have been showcasing my little 5 kids under 4 years old circus for a while. I play the clown that juggles. (If ONLY I had to JUST juggle FIRE). My juggling act usually consist of something vomit worthy. Like- at what point do little boys decide, “Ya know. Crappin my pants was fun and all… but I think I’ll move on to graffiti art with mom’s paints or hoarding cookies under my pillow.” Every time one of them, ages 3 and 2, has an “accident,” or a moment of quick decision that leaving the comfort of the outdoors to poo in a toilet is completely absurd, I make them pull down their OWN pair of pants. Make them wash their OWN poopy undies, and make them wash their OWN brown butts under the shower. They gag and/ or vomit EVERYTIME. (As do I). But stop doing it? Heck no. That would be completely ludicrous.

 HOWEVER, they go pee every five minutes to get a potty treat. Aka a choice piece of candy from Starling’s personal candy collection. (That he purchased the day after Halloween HALF price, which of course justified his buying an ENTIRE BUGGY of candy. Eh- at least if my husband MUST be addicted to something, it’s not crack cocaine). So. When I decided that the boys were a Kit Kat away from diabetes, I changed the potty treat rule. I even wrote it on the giant dry erase board in my kitchen. (The one I decided to purchase at Lowe’s on the windiest day in the history of MS, after discovering that dry erase paint is $75 dollars for a TEE-NINIE can. The giant board was $13. But it, of course, wouldn’t fit in my van because it was too long and too wide. SOOOOOOOO a nice man named Jose helped me GET the board TO my van, because the board flew away as soon I came out of Lowe’s. I, of course, was attached to the board and therefore experienced life as a tumble weed. And when I declined his request to let him FOLD it in half, Jose WAITED with my board and open van while I ran through Lowe’s begging for string. Of course when asked how MUCH I needed, I panicked and implored the little 20 year old to tie it for me. He told me to pull my van to the tie up station outside and he’d do it. THANKFULLY Jose, a frozen addition to the parking lot, at that point, was STILL guarding my board. And hadn’t stolen my van.  He drove the board on that rickety blue buggy contraption, ALL the way to the OTHER side of the parking lot, the wind blowing him to and fro, and I moved my van. Then Jose stayed while three brains attempted to plan a way to mount the flimsy board on top of my van so it wouldn’t take flight. Then Jose disappeared, but not before I thanked him repeatedly, told him he was an angel, the most blessed human I’ve encountered, and all but kissed his hand. Which may be why he left. That, or he actually went to Lowes to BUY something, not save Wendi: the great thinker. Then the other kid and I put our boy scout knot tying abilities to use. He wasn’t a boy scout and I’m a girl. So you can GUESS how that went. I did come up with a genius plan to let down my front windows, tie the board down with me INSIDE, then roll UP my windows to properly secure my loot for takeoff. I’ll have you know, I had to climb out the back of my van (since I was tied inside) when I got home, but honey- I MADE it home. And the board stayed put).

But where was I going with this? OH YES the changing of rules. So I wrote in BIG letters, for STARLING’s BENEFIT, since the boys can’t read, “REWARD SYSTEM: PEE PEE= toy from lock box; POO POO= potty treat.” (The lock box is another concoction of mine to make me feel good about my efforts as a maid and passively aggressively punish my children for being sloppy little turkey feet. When I notice the house is a wreck, with TOYS dropped around the house like confetti at New Years, I make an announcement. “TOY ALERT! TOY ALERT!” The kids have a small window of opportunity to put their toys where they belong. If they are trucking it, I let them have a long window. If they are playing with their toys, completely immune to my threat of losing every toy I see, I get my bags out and start loading up the toys to go in the “Lock Box.” It’s a pretty dramatic process. I make the toys scream in agony as I shove them into the bag and I announce EACH toy as it goes in. “BRY’S giant monster truck didn’t get put back on the shelf! ITS GOING INTO THE LOCK BOX!!!!” –manly gruffy voice-“NOOO not the LOCK BOX! WhY didn’t you SAVE ME BRY!!” Brooklyn cares. But none of her toys ever get locked because she’s basically a perfect child. Bry and Co Co sometimes help me fill the lock box bag. But now that they have almost NO toys to play with, I keep thinking they are going to understand they are getting PUNISHED for not CLEANING UP). Utter shock. My boys are having sugar withdrawals. “I don’t WANT LOCK BOX!!! I WANT POTTY TREAT!!!” Then put your poop in the toilet. It’s working. Pretty sure they both have hemorrhoids, but suddenly pooping in the toilet is a HUGE priority.