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In my job, I have a strict personal policy:  NEVER get emotionally involved in the stories you cover.  It's easier said than done.  But, over the past 20 years and after covering hundreds of stories, I have indeed put up a bit of a wall.  It's thin, but it's there.  And as a journalist, it keeps me from bias, helps foster compassion and non-judgement, and allows me to tell a fair story.

Then, my TV station news manager asked me to take over our adoption series, "A Place to Call Home."  And suddenly, it's as if my personal policy just quietly flew out the window. 

I should've known after the first shoot with this sweetheart, Courtney.

I cried on my way back from the Little Rock Zoo, which is where we shot our story with her.  Which also breaks another personal policy of mine:  NEVER cry at work.  I just believe personal business should stay personal and not become professional.

In the few days following our shoot, I found myself slightly irritable at work and at home, a little down, and sobbing when my children did something sweet.

Then, after a few days, my bad mood was over.  I just chalked it up to 'that time of the month,' it was getting hot out, whatever.

But then, it happened again, when I met these precious babies.

No mom. No dad.  Desperate to find a family to love them and care for them.  That's all they want.  And yet, in the afternoon I spent with them, you could never see their heartache.  They were so delightful, so innocent, so full of life.

That night and the two days that followed, I noticed I had low energy.  Just sort of down.  But I STILL didn't make the connection.

Not until I met three more sets of children -- did I figure it out.

Not after meeting the three siblings who hugged me...

... played and laughed with me at The Wonder Place.  We talked that day about what it would mean to have a family.

Not after introducing Marcus and Hailey to former NBA star Joe Kleine...

What a treat for them to eat their favorite barbeque and shoot hoops with a legendary professional athlete!

It happened after spending the day with darling Amy...

Apricot Girls Boutique hosted us, and 12-year old Amy was pampered!  She had her face painted, her hair spray-painted, and her nails done.  She sang karaoke, and she danced, two of her most treasured dreams.  But her biggest dream:  finding a mom and dad to love her for the long haul.  We laughed, and we cried together as she shared her heartbreaking struggle and her unwavering faith that a mom and a dad will come for her.

For me, more of the same mildly low feeling in the days to come.  But absolutely NOTHING compared to what these beautiful children have endured.
  
That's when I figured out that in those days that followed our shoots, our meeting these foster children, I was emotionally involved in their stories. It's impossible for me not to be, because, I, too, desperately want them to find families.  I want to take away their suffering, their pain.  As a mother, I want to take them in, make their struggles disappear, care for them, feed them, put a roof over their head, and most of all, love them, which is our most basic human need.

I love this Karl Menninger quote:  "Love is the basic need of human nature, for without it, life is disrupted emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and physically." 

I think for most of us, it is a natural human state to want to help and love others who cannot help themselves.  So, I suppose I will relax my rule of not getting emotionally involved in my stories, but just in this case. I will cry with and for these children, and I will laugh with them, too.  I will showcase their lives to the best of my ability, and tell their stories to anyone who will listen and watch. 

And I will pray --and then pray some more-- that loving families open their hearts and arms and bring these children home. 

This blog is dedicated to every foster child in the world, especially those in Arkansas state care.

Good thing green is his favorite color...

...because going to the dentist sucked today.

4-year old Jackson informed me on the way that if the dentist even tried to touch his suspect (i.e., decayed) tooth, he would bite him.

"No, you most certainly will NOT bite your dentist," I barked.

"But mommy... (long pause)... Yes. I will."

So, the bribes began early.  Because I can't have a child even thinking it's okay to bite his dentist.  Or anyone else for that matter.

McDonald's for breakfast, the promise of a special "treat" when all was said and done at the dentist's office, and the added pressure of setting a good example for little sister.

I was so stressed about this appointment.  Boy already had one cavity at age 3.  And getting that filled was a nightmare.  Needless to say, I was not looking forward to this adventure.

Still, in my mind, I'm trying to be positive:  We've only seen one spot that looks like a cavity, and he's just getting a cleaning today anyway.

Walked in with our sausage biscuits and hash browns (nice).  So far, so good.  It's a pediatric dentist's office, so there are toys and cartoons.  Even better.  They call his name for his X-ray, and he gets the GREEN frog chair.  Score!

Bless his heart. 

But honestly?  It's going so much better than I expected!  No meltdowns, no tantrums from either child.  Then, after his X-ray, sweet boy gets a GREEN toothbrush to take home, which excites him beyond measure...

AND he gets the little dental stall with the GREEN chair.  Thank God.

But just as I was whistling about how great things are going, the dentist has his look-see, and the news is not good.

Poor thing brushes twice a day, only drinks water and milk, and doesn't eat a whole lot of sweets.  But the dentist says he has "localized enamel hypo-dysplasia," which is a fancy phrase for rotten teeth.  It basically means the enamel on his teeth didn't "lay right" when his teeth were coming in, so he has rough spots where plaque builds up and causes decay.  The doctor showed me the spots and promptly informed me that he needs two silver crowns in the back and two, possibly three, areas filled.

Deep breath.  That's enough to make a grown man cry.   Meantime, little sis was taking it all in herself, eating her sausage biscuit.  Wonder what she's thinking?  Is she next?  Did her enamel "lay right?"

Regardless, I was so proud of my boy!  He did so well, he was so proud of himself, and I was proud of him.  No tears, no biting.  He walked out smiling, with his little bag filled with stickers, his GREEN toothbrush, and the treasure he got to pick.  I took him to Target like I told him I would for a "treat."  All the while, I was dreading the day he doesn't know is coming.  The one in 4 weeks, when he is sedated for crowns and fillings.

You can bet, that day, I'll be reminding him that GREEN is the best color ever, his favorite.  And the dentist's office has GREEN everywhere. 

Why children are the wisest of all...

Hate that I've neglected my blog.

But my beloved aunt is in the hospital with leukemia.  Here she is on her 53rd birthday, still smiling with her surprise birthday hat and glasses and tie, despite a 7-day, 24-hour chemo drip. 

She came to Arkansas from California on vacation at the beginning of June.  We thought she had the flu, so mom took her to the doctor, upon which she was promptly admitted to the hospital and within a day diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia.  Because it's onset is so quick, there was no time to go home; chemotherapy had to begin immediately.

Chemo is a vicious and brutal treatment no human should have to suffer, let alone my precious aunt, who is like a 2nd-Mom /slash/ Big Sister /slash/ Best Friend /slash/ Special Aunt -- all rolled into one.  The cancer alone makes you feel so helpless.  And then what you think is helping, i.e., chemotherapy, at times hurts her.  I hate seeing her in pain, feeling so horrible.  I've told her a hundred times I'd take it from her if I could.  Take her pain. Take her suffering, her cancer... She's already lost a child in this life.  AND had breast cancer.  What more does God want her to endure?

This, we can't know.  I trust His plan for her and know there is a reason for it.  But I admit that I question it. Is that so wrong?  I admit that I struggle with the whys and the hows as I ride the daily roller coaster with her.  No real answers ever come, except that I'm not in charge, God is. And that at the end of the day, all we can really do is love and laugh and truly adore and empathize with the people in our lives who are so dear to us.  Be companions on this crazy journey, right?

One answer did make sense the other day, though.  My kids and I were coloring pictures for her room, when a friend walked in the house. 

"Who are those for?" she asked.

"Aunt DeeDee!"  they screamed with smiles so big.  My oldest son added, "She's in the hospital because she's sick."

"She's sick, huh?"  friend commented.

"Yeah," said my almost-3 year old so matter-of-fact. "She's really, really sick because she throwed up really bad."

And it was back to coloring.

It was the best, easiest way to explain it.  The most my children could absorb and understand.

So simple. So true.  So wise.  No more questions asked.

If you read this post, please send a prayer up for DeeDee.

We decorated her door for her birthday!

Asking for trouble

So there we were.  All piled in the car outside Panera Bread negotiating the "terms" of eating out.

Me and two toddlers.

Is there any negotiating with toddlers?  I was asking for trouble.  This, I knew.  Deep in my gut.  But we were going anyway.

"So what do we do when we get out of the car?" I asked.

In unison, in such sweet voices, with so much excitement, they responded, "HOLD HANDS!"

"And when we get inside, what do we NOT do?" I inquire, asking myself totally different questions in my head. "Why am I doing this to myself? Am I nuts?"

"WE DON'T RUN AWAY FROM MOMMY!" they screamed.

"Okay!  Let's go," I muttered as I gathered up the courage --along with a 2-year old and 4-year old-- to walk inside the cafe.

Held hands in parking lot.  Check.

Skipped and let out happy noises on our way.  Check.

Stood in line with kids right by my side.  Ummmmm...

.....they tried.  But they were just too excited!  There were so many people and so many other kids and pastries, and the M&M cookies, oh my!

I started to feel my patience waver, and then I saw my beautiful friend Shannon, who was there with only one of her two toddlers.  We smiled and said hello, then she looked at me, glanced at my two suspects and she said, "I just will not do restaurants by myself with two," shaking her head.

That should've been Clue #1 that it was time to turn around and leave.  But the line was moving quickly.  The kids really, really wanted to come to Panera.  I was off work that day.  And they'd done so well lately at Hacienda and Dixie Cafe, our two "go-to" kid restaurants.

All within about ninety seconds, we moved ahead in line, I bribed my son by promising him a Sprite if he'd "stay by my side gosh-darn-it" (Clue #2 it was time to bail), and we ordered.   The kids picked our seats, and big-boy got to hold the buzzing pager and tell me when it vibrated so we'd know our food was ready.

Fun!

Sat down and began freaking out about the fact that, at Panera, you have to go pick up your food rather than have it served.  How am I going to maneuver through the crowds to get our food when it's ready?  Should I take two rambunctious toddlers with me?  I cannot leave them at the table.  How will I carry the food?  Oh Lord.  You mean, I'm going to have to make two trips with two toddlers back and forth through a crowded Panera?

All that mind chatter?  Clue #3-- get it to go!  Have 'em pack it up, eat it at home.

Right then, the buzzer went off, and the children nearly jumped out of their seats so thrilled and stunned!

"Let's go get our food!" I said, so excitedly.  (Faker, I'm thinking.  This.  Is.  Going.  To.  Be.  A.  Nightmare.)

Thank God for the nice man who was helping gather the buzzers and arrange the orders.  He walked two of our plates to the table.  I had the other two, barking (a little louder this time) at two precious ones navigating a restaurant, which, in their eyes, was really nothing more than a new playground!  This food-pick-up trip, was really just a chance for them to scope-out the lay of the land.

Tiny panic as we all sat down.  Deep breath.  Interrupted by 2-year old whining that "I wanted the peanut butter and jelly.  Not macaroni and cheese!"

"Well, sweetie, maybe we can share," I suggest (still fairly calm).

"NO!" snaps big brother.  "I don't want to share my peanut butter and jelly!"

Okay.

Then, another reason to give thanks:  baby girl spots my bread.  "I want THAAAAAT!"

A little more panic.  A few minutes and several bites pass.  Heart races.  Deep breath.  Interrupted by 4-year old, "Mommy, I need to go potty."

(SH**!).  Literally.

Okay.  Deep breath.  I politely asked the ladies next to me to make sure the Panera peeps don't clear our table, please.  "You've got your hands full, you poor thing," one of them commented.

Really?

Off to the restroom we went.  "Mommy, I need to poooooooop."  Okay.  Then the younger one, who is newly potty trained played copycat.  "I need to pooooop too, Mommy." Okay.  Deep breath.  Cover toilet #1.  Deep breath.  Cover toilet #2.  Deep breath.  Both stalls full.  With my children.  Line starts to form.  Tick-tock.  Tick-tock.  "Let's hurry up, guys," I bug.  Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

At this point, 15 minutes has passed.  I'm certain they busboys have cleared our table.  I know for a fact that at least one lady was about to pee her pants.  Then one after another, "I'm done, mommy, will you wipe me?"

Hands washed, no worse for the wear, back to the table we go.  Our food is still there.  But the kids were distracted and barely eating.  And they were antsy.  (Clue #4.  Get the hell out!).

A sweet Panera lady walked by just then, and I begged her to bring me to-go boxes.  She was happy to help.  I stood up to collect our food, and apparently, my 4-year old took that as his cue to begin running, yes running, through Panera Bread. Circle after circle, as if Panera were a track, he ran the playground he'd earlier scoped.    

Baby sister then joined in, but I was able to corral her.  Not him.  I looked around, and everyone was staring.  One lady had a bite of food ready to eat, but her jaw had dropped staring at us.  I heard another person say, "Isn't that the lady on Channel 11?  Poor thing."  Great.  After publicly yelling for him to stop (he was too fast for me, and I looked like a fool trying to chase him, with toddler-diva in one arm, food in the other), a sweet old lady reached out her arm and grabbed him like it was no big deal.  She nodded to me with a satisfying, but smug, smile, as if to say, "come and get your unruly brat."

I grabbed him by the arm so hard, it scared even me.  At the entrance of Panera, he was sternly told how disappointing his behavior was, how all toys and privileges were, that day, removed, and how we would never, ever come back to Panera again.  It was actually the thought of never coming back that made him cry.

He was nearly dragged to the car.  Cried all the way home.  I did too.  My adrenaline high had crashed me.  I was sad that I had subjected anyone publicly to two toddlers.  Upset that I had to publicly scold my children.  I was beating myself up that I brought them there in the first place and up-ended their schedule.  Disheartened that I would never get to eat out again unless I hired a babysitter.  Deep breath.

Later, everyone calmed down, and we politely talked about the lunchtime mayhem.  Wild-child explained what he'd done wrong, and he apologized.  He also begged to go back to Panera.

In my mind, never.

But turns out, we went back the next week.  That time, we brought Daddy along.  And, of course, everyone behaved.

An Unexpected Legacy

Ok, I'll admit.  I was mildly irritated today.  I know, I know.  It's Mother's Day, and all moms are supposed to be pampered and loved-on and grateful to be moms.  I was all those things, but I was also just a wee-bit annoyed.

My plan didn't work.  It never does.  I have long-known that a late bed-time does not equal sleeping-in.  In fact, it's the opposite.  The later my angels fall asleep, the earlier they awaken.  But 6:15 a.m. on a Sunday morning?  I thought we'd at least make it to 7 a.m.  Wrong I was...

But there was no way I could be mad.  With two little darlings climbing all over me, screaming "Happy Mother's Day," smiling and jumping on the bed and just generally being the sweetest kids ever, there wasn't a mad bone in my body.

Especially when I saw their entourage.  That was when the emotions came.

I never know which lovies or blankies or stuffed ones will accompany my babes.  On this Mother's Day morning, my children came with piles and piles of beanie babies.

All I could think was how appropriate it was.  Years and years before, another mother I know and love started her collection of these ridiculous stuffed animals!  My Grandma Joyce.  Sweet "Grand," as I called her.   Bless her heart, I think she really thought they would be worth something one day because she had literally hundreds of them. I vaguely recall her saying something about how she was just sure they would quadruple in value.  How could she ever know, they've turned to gold for me!

The piles of them are kept now in my mother's closet.  And everytime my children go to their grandma's house, they get to take one beanie home each visit.  At this rate, we'll be doing it well into college the amount left.  It is a lovely sight.  All of the beanies poured out on the bed, with them taking their precious time to choose the perfect "friend" to bring home.  This treat is one of the things that most excites them, especially because they think it comes from their beloved "T." (Grandma T is what they call my mom).  Really, it came from mine.

So, oddly, my grandma's beanie babies have become one of her sweetest and unexpected legacies.  To think that this is one of the ways she lives on!  She would be horrified.  The thought of it probably has her upside down in the ocean where her cremains were placed, as I type   I'm certain she would much rather be remembered for her beauty and her kind heart and her hip old lady clothes and shoes and purses and jewelry.  Not toys!

But she doesn't get to choose that.  No one does.  When we leave this earth, we never know what we will leave behind for our loved ones to carry on.

So, this day, I honor not just the love and joy and laughter that my sweet grandma left to my mother that my mother passed to me that I (hopefully) am giving to my children.  I honor the beanies, too.  For they really are a simple, unexpected gift that keeps on giving!

 Sweet Grandma Joyce (my "Grand")

Royal-Schmoyal Wedded Myth? Or Happily-Ever-After?

I get asked a lot of questions every day.  Mostly, need-based questions, like, "Can I have some milk, mommy?"  Or "Will you read me Cinderella one more time before bed?"  Or my favorite from a little potty-training-princess, "Momma, will you wipe me?" 

But I've never been asked a question more times than this one:  "Are you getting up to watch the royal wedding?"

Don't get me wrong.  No one loves a royal wedding more than I love a royal wedding.  Afterall, the dresses, the ring, crowns and tiaras, the horse and buggy, the ever-so-majestic Westminster Abbey, a young prince and his soon-to-be princess, a queen and her peeps... It's the stuff of fairy tales.  The stuff every little girl dreams of.  It's where the expression "and they lived happily ever after" comes from.

Which is why I will be watching tomorrow morning.  Of course, I want to see her dress!  But I also want to know what kind of majestic fairy tale my precious little girl will grow up trying to create for herself.

I hear moms often struggling over whether to let their daughters play with princess dolls:  Cinderella, Snow White, Aerial, and Belle.  I hear some saying they have sworn off fairy-tale books because they fear their daughters will grow up with this idea that a prince will come along and rescue them from whatever travails their life brings.  Other mothers I know are full-throttle with the Disney princesses, the happy endings, and the perfect love stories.

To be honest, I don't know that I believe in happily ever after.  I've seen too much hurt, too many broken hearts over the years.  I'm not sure I've ever thought someone could rescue me, nor have I ever personally met a prince.  Every man I know and love has flaws, perfect with all their imperfections.  I don't personally know any princesses either, although a couple girlfriends I have are certainly worthy of a tiara. 

Tomorrow we will see a real live princess marry a real live prince.  And the world will be watching on real live TV.  Maybe that's what all the hoo-ha is, over this glorious affair.  There are still princesses and crowns and happily-ever-afters in the world.

But I'm a skeptic.  I'd really like to believe.  I'd like my daughter to grow up thinking there are happy endings and rainbows and that she is a princess worthy of a crown.  But I know that life will break her heart one day, and I pray I am there to help her pick up the pieces and move on.. and keep believing.

Maybe that is the happy ending.  To keep believing no matter what life gives.

So tomorrow, while I'll be watching and goo-gah'ing over the dresses, I'll also be asking, is this wedding just feeding a vicious myth in our little-girl hearts and minds?  Or is it the real thing, a happily-ever-after that keeps us believing?  What do you think?

In mourning...

Tonight, I'm going to a wake.   Defined, a wake is a watch kept over a person or persons who died, usually occurring the night preceding a funeral or burial.

I'll be there in support of a dear friend.  His sister-in-law and nephew were crushed by a fallen tree in the middle of a dark and terrible night,  when storms again brought horror to our state.

What happened is heartbreaking.  This little boy was afraid of the thunder, and his sweet mom went to lay in bed with him and calm his fears.  It's what any mom would do.  She was holding him in her arms, loving him, telling him everything was going to be okay.

In the end, it wasn't okay.  At least not for those of us left here on earth to pick up the pieces, to make sense of tragedies like this.  Especially not okay for her little 2-year old left behind.  Yes, while she and her son were killed, her 2-year old baby girl slept in the next room, alive and physically untouched by the tornado that destroyed her family.

I can't think of a whole lot worse than this.  I have been in tears most of my days since these kind people died.

Saturday, my friend asked if I would watch his children so he and his wife could get to the funeral home to plan services.  These are boys, ages 7 and 1, who had just lost their favorite auntie and cousin.  The first thing the 7-year old did was come sit really, really close to me.  I held him so tight, and he looked up at me with crocodile tears and said, "I miss my Auntie and my cousin."  And we sat there, and we cried.

As children do, he bounced back quickly and played, then out of nowhere, he cried again.  And again.  And again.   And again.  When my friend came to pick up his kids, I asked what else I could do for him. He looked at me tearfully and said, "hug Jackson and Keene more than you normally might."

And so, after he and his children left, I did as he asked.  I spent the rest of the day outside with my children, holding them more, laughing a little louder, playing a little harder, turning my head every few minutes to let the tears fall away, knowing that this day, me and mine were spared.  I have no idea why.  None of us do, but as mother nature often does, she reminded me that day that any one of us could go, at any minute, any time.

My son asked that night, "Mommy, why didn't the tree hit our house?"  And for once, I could not answer his question.

"I don't know, Jackson," I replied.

That wasn't sufficient.  He was bothered and worried.  "But mommy, why?"

I simply said, "That's just not what the storm decided to do, sweetie."

Then, I quietly gave him a soft kiss, turned off the lights, and laid there holding him, calming his fears, just like another mother had done a few nights before.

I dedicate this blog post to her, her son, and her surviving 2-year old girl.