Snowy

I know when I'm off-center.


Unbalanced.


Like nothing is falling into a rhythm.  Tasks pile up.  Can't get ahead of the clock.  Scattered energy.  Going 50 different directions but really not getting anywhere.  Slightly irritable.  Mentally snowed-in.


We're still not in a routine.  Last week, school didn't start until Tuesday.  By Thursday, I was feeling a little more regimented.  But then, Friday was a snow day. 


The same day of the photograph...


I'm not sure I'll re-share that entire picture here.  I'll decide by the end of the blog...


Basically, boy-child and girl-child were playing in the dusting of snow that shut-down our fair city.  They repeatedly called me outside from making homemade waffles.  I ignored, but then the screams turned guttural, and I figured I should head outside for fear the neighbors might call the authorities. 


I walked outside to see what the fuss was about (took my phone, of course, in case there was a snowman or other snow-figure to document).  Instead, I walked right into their little snowball operation.  Slammed by a huge, freezing-cold snowball!   Turns out, I unknowingly captured the tail end of my sweet little sneaky son coming at me in a photo.


We died laughing. I finished the waffles and bacon.  We ate.  Then I looked through my pictures.  When I saw the photo of my boy with a snowball in-hand, it was so cute and so spontaneous, I posted it on social media, even though I don't post a whole lot of photos of my children (the reasons why could be another potential blog post).  What I also noticed, in the background, my daredevil-daughter was standing on a trashcan gathering the puffy "good snowball" snow from on top of the car.   Ready for battle.


I was ill-prepared for my own trashing upon posting this.  Oh-boy, the "mom-of-the-year" comments started.  Anywhere from jokes to the more serious private messages, "Miss Dawn, I'm sorry but something in that photo doesn't look very safe."


I took the picture down.  (disclaimer:  daughter was unscathed).  And yes, I will be the first to admit, she shouldn't have been standing on the trash can.  However, knowing her well, she is adventurous and a bit of a risk-taker at the ripe age of 8.  When she sets her mind to something, she is a force to be reckoned with.  As such, she is also slightly accident-prone.  She was off the trash can within minutes.  And mom-of-the-year, here, documented that questionable-parenting-moment for the social world to see.


Later, I got to thinking..  wait a minute!  When I was a toddler (which was a very long time ago), I rode in the front middle seat of my mom's Chevy Nova STANDING UP.  A few years after, I walked the neighborhood alone.  Mom even left me at home every now and then by age 10 when she had to work late.  Activities, which, in this day and age, are absolutely taboo.


And I get why.  But where is the line drawn?  From letting kids live a little vs.  protecting them at all cost from anything that could potentially hurt them?   It's a valid question.  And I certainly don't have the answers.  Parenting is a moment-by-moment moral and spiritual endeavor that is never-ending and incredibly personal.  I like to believe, despite the horror stories I sometimes report, that most parents do the very best they can.  


Still, I'm off-balance today.  Not sure why I'm so snowy.   


I know it will pass.  Someone once said to me that life is a balance between holding on and letting go.  True.  Balance always wins. 


It's a little like that being a parent.  Holding tight, keeping them safe.  Then letting them spread their wings and fly.   What a privilege!


Oh, and here's that photo...

New Year, New Me (blah blah blah)

All this new-year-new-me bs had me back in bed this morning after school drop-off.  It was just too much. 


Everyone's posts about their new diet, new workout regimen.  New plans to do better, be better, act better, try harder.  After all, happiness is just around the proverbial corner...


People are always being encouraged to change.    But then you hear that people don't ever really change.  So confusing.  I think it's freeing to think we can.  So, on January 1st and 2nd and 3rd and 4th, we work out, eat right, act nice, let go of last year, start anew. 


But then, here we sit.  With our same old selves.  Same old messes.  Same thoughts and feelings.  Same mistakes.  Same situations.


In life, even though so much changes,  it really stays the same, doesn't it?  


Maybe it comes down to the basics.  This moment.  The here and now...


Last year, I turned 45, which means I outlived my father, which I never thought I would do.  I now have a 10-year old boy and an 8-year old girl, when doctors told me 13 years ago, I would never have children.  Our little "fractured" family (i.e., divorced) is quite happy and healthy, despite hiccups here and there.  This, even though so many judged and shared unsolicited opinions and advice.   2016 brought a lot of love, a lot of comfort, a lot of monotonous routine, and no need for therapy (I'm possibly most thankful for this!). 


Our little pygmy miniature frog died.  He never had a name the entire year he was with us.  We buried him under the trampoline out back with a proper ceremony, thanking him for the fun he brought.


The children were old enough to understand the election.  Except when we told my daughter that there was a Democratic party, a Republican party, a Libertarian party and a Green party, her response was, "That is A LOT of parties to go to!  Am I invited?" I spit out my drink, I laughed so hard.  If only it were that simple......


Yes, I guess the election changed a lot. 


But so much stays the same.   Kiddos running for a hug every night when I get home from work.   Kisses at school drop-off, which in a short year or so will equal complete embarrassment for them.  This work I am so grateful to do:  5 p.m. and 6 p.m. defines my life every night.  The orphaned and foster children who need their voice.  Steady, constants.  Neither good nor bad.  It just is.


I think it comes down to the mini-frogs that die, the daily minutes that pass, the moments where we sit with ourselves, even if just for a few seconds.  Because in between all that we create the fabric of our lives.  The 'new me.'  The choice to pause and allow and be grateful for what is.  That choice is available every moment.  And that won't change. 


Cheers to you all!  Here's hoping I can keep up with writing this blog in 2017.  

Our Children

I usually blog about my kids here. 


But this post isn't about them.


At least not my biological children.  This is about my other ones...


Our other ones.


I say our because they are ours.  Our tax dollars pay for their care.  Our state workers make sure they're safe.  They live in our cities and towns.  Yet they're invisible, an after-thought.  Sitting somewhere, frightened and feeling as if no one wants them.


They are state foster children.  Innocent.  Alone.


I began this journey 6 years ago, when my news manager asked if I would pick up a feature on a child named Courtney who was up for adoption.  I did.  The child was adopted because of the story we told.  I grabbed on that day when I met her, and I promised never to stop telling their stories... never to stop shining light on this horrific darkness. 


Tonight, as we fall asleep, cozy in our beds, 4,984 foster children in Arkansas sit wondering where they'll end up.  Back home with biological parents, who are often broken themselves by poverty, drug abuse, or mental illness? To a shelter, where they know no one?  To a foster home?  


The latter is ideal, but the fact is, there aren't enough foster homes.  Only 3,384 available beds.  You do the math. 


What happens then?  The children might sleep in DHS offices with workers.  They might stay up late at Children's Hospital, in some cases, until someone says they'll take them for the night.  Can you imagine how that child must feel?


For six weeks, I've been producing and writing a 30-minute special to air Thursday on THV 11 called "Foster Care Crisis."  In it, Governor Asa Hutchinson tells me this is about more now than the state writing a check to take care of the problem.  People are needed.  Hearts must open to bring in these children, who are ours. 


In the special broadcast, I also share June Simpson's story.  She and her husband have fostered so many children that they "stopped counting at 125." I asked her why she does this.  She answered, "it's not about us.  It's about the children.  They need us.  Why else would you do it?"


And there's Kelly Wirtz, who adopted a teenage girl, something beyond what she ever thought she would do.  As she told me, "I'm a single mom.  I live paycheck to paycheck.  I don't have a lot, but I have a home, and we have each other."


These are the people who have my heart and all my respect.  Them.  And the children.  Our children, who are suffering unspeakable trauma right now.  Children, like the two little girls I met last week, who answered this when I asked how badly they want a family to adopt them: "from one to a hundred?  A hundred."


After we taped the show, my director told me, "man, Dawn, it's just almost too sad to even watch."  Yes it is.  Maybe it's a wake-up call.


This is a crisis.  And our children are hanging in the balance until we figure it out.  Don't they deserve better?

The girls who want a family to adopt them

June Simpson with her foster, biological, and adopted children

Kelly Wirtz and her adopted daughter Stephany

Governor Asa Hutchinson

30 Days

It may come as no big shock that the word I've heard most from my 'littles' these past thirty days is... "YUCK."


Yuck to the sticky plantain chips we tried to make that were one giant fail.  Yuck to Brussels sprouts.  Yuck to Paleo-approved waffles. 


Followed closely by...


"But why are you dieting, MOM?"


"Why don't you just eat it if you want it so bad?!  It's just cheese dip...(or insert here:  a pancake, popcorn, a cookie, butter)."


Even my sweet 9-year old son said (and I kid you not), "Mom, you're not fat.  I don't understand why you're doing this."


But I'm not doing it to lose weight.  Although I am a size smaller than I was 30 days ago (I can't share pounds, because I refuse to weigh.  I'm a tall girl -nearly 5'10"- and I always hate the number I see on that scale.  So I don't step on).


If you've followed along on Instagram (@dawnerscott), then you already know that exactly thirty days ago, I gave up dairy, wheat, grains/beans/rice, soy, processed foods, sugar (not including sugar that naturally exists in fresh fruits), beer, wine, and champagne.  I didn't include all alcohol.  I allowed myself Tito's vodka (which is distilled using corn), and Jameson whiskey (which is triple distilled using rye).  Not perfect, according to Paleo (which is the eating style I followed).  It calls for no alcohol, but I know myself pretty well  and decided that an occasional drink (with no sugary mixers added) would be my exception.  If I didn't allow at least that, I knew I would cheat and then feel bad about myself for doing so.  Therefore, I just allowed it from the start.


I missed cream in my coffee the most.  Cheese dip and chips, second.  Crackers and sharp cheddar cheese, third.  Now 'n Laters, fourth.  Macaroni and cheese and other cheesy casseroles, fifth.  Beer, sixth.  Champagne, seventh. 


Comfort foods.  Carbs.  Sugars.      


Which brings me back to that nagging question, "why do this?"


To tell you the truth, I had fallen into some pretty poor eating habits.  And long-story-short, it was affecting my moods, my energy levels, and my well-being.  I wasn't diagnosed with anything dire by a physician (thankfully), but I just didn't feel great.  My skin and hair were dry (to the point of cracking), I was often dehydrated (as I cycle, run, and practice hot yoga regularly), I never seemed to have energy to make it through the days without ultimately grabbing bags of chips and sugars to get me through.  And I used alcohol (and it's sugars) to replace meals, using the excuse that "it was just too late to eat now."  But then I would crave pretzels, cheese dip, nachos, etc, while drinking.  I grabbed foods and drinks that gave me comfort, regardless of whether they were good for me or not. 


I knew at my age (I am 44, FORTY FOUR, which I rarely reveal, but it's just time to be real) I could not sustain this.  I was irritable and tired around my children, and even worse, teaching them terrible eating patterns and habits. 


So now, thirty days later, I drink my coffee black.  I make my eggs with spinach and mushrooms and asparagus and some days kale, instead of with cheese and milk.  I eat salads and fish, instead of cheesy, creamy soups and sandwiches.  And I cook everything with olive, avocado, or coconut oils.  My taste buds have changed.  I can actually savor the sweetness in summer squash and enjoy zucchini noodles instead of flour pasta.  I have zero sinus issues, which I suffered nightly.  Dairy, I learned, is an inflammatory and without it,  things cleared up for me.


I've learned that almost everything you buy in a can or a box or a jar contains sugar or some version of soy, which naturally jumps you up.  Then later leaves you crashing and craving more sugar and carbs.  An addiction I'm happy to drop.


I now visit the grocery store often, since everything I eat is fresh.  My moods are even, more so than they've been my entire life.  And I have energy I previously lacked. 


But best of all?  My children have started eating some of the dishes I make.  The "YUCK" has been replaced (...wait for it) with my son cooking!  And my daughter begs for certain "clean" meals.  Last Saturday, in fact, we sprayed fresh kale with olive oil and added Himalayan pink sea salt, stuck it in the oven, and enjoyed crispy kale chips.  They were delicious, and we were fighting over them!


That's why I'm not stopping today.  Eventually, I'll sprinkle back in some cheeses here and there, along with other occasional "non-approved" foods and drinks.  But for me, what started as something to "do" for thirty days truly changed our lives.  I'm thankful for that. 

Dream on...

I had to laugh off my dream.


Literally.


(since when did life ever turn out like you dreamed it would anyway)?  But that's not really what I'm talking about here.


I was laying there, fading into the cold, dark, miserable, sleeting January night with warm, peaceful, delicious beach-y thoughts.  Dreaming about the waves crashing, the sun shining, and the powdery sand in between my toes.  Falling so sweetly into sleepy-land, when one of my little's faint voices came out of the shadows. "Momma, I can't really sleep.."  It was my boy-child.  My 9-year old.  He's never been much of a sleeper.  And I can't believe I just typed "9-year old."  Where did the last decade go?


"I need lay-time, I think." he whispered.  Lay-time is when I crawl in bed with them and tell a story or tickle their arm, remind them of how special they are.  But now that he's getting older, often he is the one who wants to talk.  In this case, it was about a few students in his class who've not been acting great, and, as such, the entire class is being punished. 


"It's really not fair, mom." he uttered.  (when did he start calling me just 'mom'?)  "I didn't do anything wrong," he said firmly.


I had to agree that life is not fair.  It's just not.  In about 20 seconds my mind went something like this:   people are born and then they die.  And in between, come thousands of instances that aren't fair:  terminally-ill children, abuse, heartbreak, war, hatred, divorce, death.  Not fair.  Even much simpler, the days you get all the red lights, or someone else gets the opportunity you don't.  On and on...


But I decided not to share such thoughts.  I just said I understood and said how 'bout I tickle his arm to help him fall asleep.  He said OK.  Then I said, "try to think happy thoughts as you fall asleep, sweet boy."


"YES!" he cried.  "Like that maybe tomorrow or Friday will be a SNOW day.  Momma, (back to momma now) think of it - the powdery white, soft snow.  It feels so cold and fresh outside!  Snow angels!  My sister and I get along for the day!  Hot chocolate!  No cars in the street and we can sled ALLLLL DAYYYYY!"


I just had to laugh!


Dreams of a snowy winter..


..dreams of a sunshin-y beach.


Whatever the trick.  Whatever works. 


Either way, I think to myself, the next day we'll wake up to whatever reality is presented.  The goodness, the beauty, the joy, right alongside the confusion, uncertainly, and anxiety over life and over things unfair.  Waking up fully alive.  Showing up for the day and the people we love. 


It's hard sometimes to wake up fully alive, to show up for the day and for the people we love and want in our lives.  And yet waking up is exactly the thing I'm thankful for, as I crawl back in and dream of warmer days. 

...at what cost?

The question came at bedtime. 


"Momma, why does everything in the whole world cost money?  Is there anything that you don't have to pay for?"


Straight from the mouth of my 3rd grader... 3rd grader? Already?  I.  Can't. 


It's a legitimate question.  Worth asking, worth answering.  He's my little old soul, my wise one, my thinker.  The one who asks questions.  I worry about him sometimes, because I'm a thinker too, and I know from experience that overthinking can cause so much undue pain.


Honestly, it was a hard question to answer.  I was laying there with him, trying to come up with a list of things that don't cost money. It was quiet. I was tickling his arm to help him fall asleep, like I've done since he was a baby (even though he's in the 3rd grade).


"Well, these arm tickles don't cost anything," I say.  (lame)


It wasn't a good answer. 


"Mom.  Watching TV even costs money because you had to buy the TV."  He didn't stop there. "And even walking on the land in our back yard isn't free, because you paid for it." 


"That's true.  But the air we breathe and the relationships we have with the people we love don't cost a thing," I say, hoping it will suffice.


It was not what he wanted to hear. 


I couldn't come up with anything satisfactory. 


I wanna say that he could read a book for free, but I know he'll say that you have to pay for the book.  I wanna say that he could go for a bike ride for free, but I know he'll say that you have to pay for the bike.  I wanna say his public school is free, but the truth is, we pay taxes to pay teachers, and I don't really want to explain that yet. 


So instead, I say that this is why the relationships we have with people are so very important, because they don't cost a penny, and they bring us the greatest joy.  I say that this is why he gets in trouble when he fights with his sister or shows disrespect to me or his father or anyone else, because, short of the family he one day creates for himself, we are the most important people in his life.  I go on to say that there are a lot of things in life that are free. 


Love.
Friends.
People who come into our lives who mean something to us.
Kindness.
A smile.
Memories.
Laughter. 


Really, though.  How do you explain to a 3rd grader that what matters most is to love and be loved?  And that it doesn't cost a dime...


He was silent.  I could tell he was digesting this.  But who knows how much of it he really got.  Because I said, "..oh and we don't have to pay for these sweet cuddles at night and in the morning, right?"


"Yeah, but the bed we're laying on costs money," he countered.


Indeed. 


I love watching this boy's brain develop.  It's remarkable to see.  And it's free of charge.  (I think...)

Coffee and green paint

Sweet baby girl figured out how to make coffee.  Yes, coffee.  She's almost 7.  I suppose she's watched me grind up beans, dump the grounds into the filter, and fill the carafe to the brim with water every single day of her life.  It's probable she knew how to do it by heart.


Anyway, she brewed a pot.  Brought me coffee in bed.  With cream, just like I like it. Presented it on a plate with my favorite Kind dark chocolate-peanut butter bar, along with a handmade note.  "Happy Parents Day!  I love you to the moon and back, momma!"


Parents Day?  Who knew? 


"I saw it on the calendar," she proudly exclaimed.  "It said 'Parents Day.'"  I was stunned and touched.


Meanwhile, she didn't know that I hadn't really slept well.  Not sure why.  But I awoke with a slight irritation, and it stuck all morning.  Not the kind that would push me to snap at the next episode of bad behavior or scream about the mess I stumble upon trying to get to the laundry piles I loathe.


It wasn't the kind of edginess that makes the whole day bad or sends me into a panic.   Just the kind that maybe a lot of mothers have.   A tiny bit of nervousness that wasn't there before kids, since back then we weren't responsible for the lives and well-being of little people.  We didn't have saddled on our shoulders the daily duty of teaching children how to grow up, cope with life, and be decent.   We could always crawl back under the covers whenever life didn't go right. 

Sometimes, the bit of tension robs me of the present moment.  Steals away the gift of savoring the coffee made by a darling little girl on a Sunday morning.  I'm always worrying, thinking "what if," "what next," "now what."

 
This morning, it's definitely there.  I can feel it getting heavier in my chest. Maybe because shortly after the coffee sweetness came the property disputes over $1-store toys no one really cares about.  The tit-for-tat.  The upset.  The hurt feelings.  The cries for "mooooooooooom!' to make it right.


Maybe it's because we are on epic meltdown #2 in 15 hours time. Over what? I can't determine. They'd been gone for a week in the Rocky mountains, and my guess is they were exhausted upon re-entry from vacationland.

 

Maybe because already the heat index is near 100 degrees, and it's not even noon. 

 

But when I saw the green splatter of paint on my kitchen carpet, I felt that anger-adrenaline-grit-my-teeth-and-growl surge through my body.  The step-up from the slight annoyance that began the day. 

Deep breath #1.
 

I had to immediately check myself.


Deep breath #2.


I realized why the paint was there.

Deep breath #3.

It was impossible to be angry.

Deep breath, deep breath.  To the bathroom.  Tears flowing. 

The paint was there because after she made coffee, she painted her hands and feet to stamp the handmade card she gave me. There was no way I could be mad.

The thoughts came fast.  None of the messes matter.  Why the angst each day, why the worry, Dawn?  Why not enjoy every sacred moment with these two amazing angels who love you in ways they can never, ever comprehend?  Angels who teach you that you are able to love in deep and abiding ways you never believed possible.  Who cares if the laundry doesn't get done?  Who cares if you trip over Legos everyday?  Because the fact is, you've been gifted something amazing.  The chance to be their mom. The chance to choose love, not fear, every single moment.    

Pause.

Isn't it true, then, that in the messes, in the paint, in the laundry, in the dishes, in the stains and dirt and tears and needs and cries -- isn't it true that there really is so much love? Right there.  In the middle of it all.