The 13th Apostol

Realtor T.V.

I feel like someones ripped my guts out from my throat.
There's no way to describe what being in this position feels like.
I did as mush as I could, tried as hard as I could.

She (The Owner) has decided to Market the house for 126K using a Realtor.

I was informed this afternoon, Al and I would have 20 minutes notice prior to the house being shown, at which point we would have to vacate the property until the Realtor gave us the "All Clear".

I'm just weak physically from smiling for my child...it takes so much energy when your  heart is breaking.

Patterns: Stranger Things Have Have Happened

To those of you who've been with me since the Slummy days, the sight of this yellow rose with my home in the background is as sweet as the scent she emits on a cool Spring evening.

Some of you even had a front row seat as this home was miraculously placed in our laps at the end of an exhaustive, and depressing search for a rental last July.

And while ownership was contingent on qualification, she (the owner) allowed us to take occupancy in the mean time.

It's presently the mean time.
The deadline is upon me, and the numbers don't work.
I have done a lot of magic tricks in my life, but I simply cannot turn 90K into 119K.

Last August when we signed the lease, she, being the Attorney that she is, slipped in an addendum at the last minute, which was overlooked by the brainiacs at HUD.

To which it reads:
Tenant is aware the property is for sale subject to the lease and that she has a right of first refusal should a contract be presented within three months of the start of this lease. Landlord shall have the right to enter the Premises to show the property without Tenant's consent.

Hmm. I see a pattern. Do you see a pattern?
What do you want to bet this situation gets really flippin ugly before it's done?

She got the house in foreclosure for 64K, dumped 45K into it and "ran out of money"...she was trying to flip the thing, and she had it listed way high. Like 126K initially.
Not in this area.
If someone can afford 126K, they aren't buying here, they're buying up North, or going more Urban/Inner city...so it sat...
and sat...and sat, until I came along.
I didn't WANT to buy it, I called to lease it, but she offered a lease/purchase and I was desperate for a roof over my kids head.

Pattern, key word, DESPERATE.

Do I love the house?
It needs a lot of money put back into it. The windows need to be replaced, plumbing is shot, the remodeling job was low end and the bills are insane.
Most people shopping for a home aren't DESPERATE for a roof over their kids head.

The question was, do you love the house?
What I love is living in a neighborhood where my son is safe and happy.
What I love is what Al loves...his home, his friends, his back yard.
What I love is the thought of never having to uproot the little guy again.
What I love is restoring his faith in me as his mom and God as God...
It would take a miracle to get Al his home for keeps.

Stranger things have happened.

In The Dandelions

This is the average Dandelion (weed) in my backyard after 90 days. This one is still standing upright due to the structure behind it.

We are going to be monitoring the progress of this...Dandelion (weed), sporadically to see just how tall this beanstalk will get.

I'll let a couple of others grow too, just so you don't think this is some rare, freakish, Dandelion, growth anomaly...Dog.

For as long as we are here, this Dandelion shall grow! (Here? Why, whatever do you mean? Where else would you be?)

I'll same that for the next post, besides I don't want to distract from the enormocity of this Dandelion.

Did you hear that? I think it roared.

Boy to Man, Amen

"Al?"
"Uh huh?"
"Put down the PSP please."
What mom?"
"You know I love you right?"
"Uh huh."
"First off, your NOT in any trouble."
(Worried face) "What mom?"
"Have you guys done Ball Room dancing in Mr. H.'s class?"
"No, but we get to before schools out."
"What kind of dancing HAVE you done?"
"Umm, we did Tango last, why?"
"Who was your partner bud?"
"I don't rem, Oh yeah, it was Taylor. We fought a lot about who was going to lead, Taylor won most of the time."
"Did anything happen between you and Taylor you want to tell me about?"
"No."
"Are you sure? Taylor didn't get upset about anything while you all were dancing?"
(Dead Air)
"All right, something DID happen." (Head hung)
"It's OK bud, just tell me, we can fix this, remember nothings so big it can't be fixed."
"Taylor never wanted to let me lead. I'm a guy mom, guys are supposed to lead right?"
"Well, I think it's always best to take turns."
"Taylor never wanted to let me take a turn, ever!"
"So... what happened?"
"I took the lead."
"And?'
"And she got mad mom, (voice begins to crack) and, and, she pulled real hard on my arm mom."
"And?"
"And...I didn't use my voice." (head to knees)
"What did you use?"
"I grabbed her."
"I see."
"I know it was wrong, but I'm a man, men lead!"
"No Al, a real man never grabs a woman, ever. No matter what the circumstances."
(Tears)
"Taylor has been very upset since this happened. Taylor told her mother you grabbed her breast."
"Gross!"
"Al, that's not appropriate."
"Mom, that's gross, and besides, Taylor doesn't have any breasts so how could I grab them? Eeeww."
"All right, that's enough. Your at an age now when you must not touch the girls. You must keep your hands to yourself. This incident is a perfect example of what can happen. Do you understand?"
"Uh huh."
"What are you going to say when you see Taylor tomorrow?"
"I'm going to say (thinking)..., I'm sorry you've been all freaked out, but I didn't grab your breast, because you can't grab something thats not there, but men don't grab anything even things that aren't there...and, um, Oh, and you should really let a guy lead once in a while Taylor...That's what I'm going to say mom, what do you think? "

Heavenly Father/Mother
Give me wisdom and strength to raise this boy to man.
In Christs name I ask these.
Amen

 

One Year Later...

A call this morning, a message left on my voice mail from a histrionic mother/social worker/thought-she-was-a-friend, making allegations against my boy.
My boy.
Saying he, during Ball Room dancing, touched her daughters breast.
Assaulted, by the tone in her voice, her utter preciousness.
Two weeks  back.
Two weeks back.
By the time the message was left on my phone, the histrionic mother/social worker/thought-she-was-a-friend had already been to the Teacher with her complaint of my son's predatory behavior.

Had already informed the Teacher of my son's "History" (aka abusive Dad), and wanted to assure me she wasn't trying to get my son in trouble, just that it be addressed head on.

Before she called me, and told my voice mail.
About my son touching her daughters breast during Ball Room dancing two weeks ago...then she promptly informed me she wouldn't be off work until 4:30.

Does anyone remember where we were one year ago?

I'm truly not trying to make light of this, if that in fact is what happened.
But all I can think is...
Thank You Jesus!

Eye For an Eye

I had this fantasy when I got pregnant with Al, that his dad Marc would ask me to marry him if I was good enough. He evicted me in Civil Court instead.

I remember sitting in the back of that courtroom, him and his brother six rows up and to the left. The backs of their heads almost identical, except Marc's had more surface area than the brother's.

The anxiety leading up to the court date had been tremendous. Having been served papers in the bedroom 60 days prior. They literally served the notice to the bedroom door, the brother leading the process server through the filthy house and knocking on the door. "Apostol, there's someone out here you might want to come talk to"...so I did.

The serving of papers was a culmination of events starting on Christmas Eve two months before, whereby my uncontrollable rage over an Escort being at the house to see the brother, landed me in a psychiatric ward for 72 hours.

It only makes sense to lock up the crazy woman screaming, rather than the calm male homeowner who paid a woman to have sex with him on Christmas Eve.

It wasn't the first time, certainly wouldn't be the last. Unfortunately most sex addicts "Bottom" is death.  My screaming did nothing but harm my children and myself. Al and Athena were both there that night...something I'd worked hard towards, having her home for Christmas.

"Owie, owie,  friend owie?" Al would say, while pointing to his Uncle's room.
"Uncle Victor and his friend are wrestling, that's all honey."...and then... I lost it.
A full blown, I-will-hurt-you-so-bad-you-sick-SOB, type break apart at the bottom of the stair case.

My head spun, I puked chartreuse, swore at all living and non-living creatures.
It was the show to end all shows. Poorly choreographed though, because at some point someone, I don't recall whom, decided words were inadequate...and physical contact was made to accentuate the audio.

This entire ordeal was witnessed by both my children. In fact, before the police could even arrive on the scene, a call placed by the brother, he had called the foster mother and told her to come get Athena, that "an incident had occurred at the house and the police were on their way."

Can you even imagine?   

So there I sat in the courtroom, Marc and his brother six rows up and to the left. I had come to fight the eviction, to stand my ground, explain my side, defend myself. As I sat there though, I remember thinking how absurd the whole thing was, how humiliating that I was dependent upon these two worms for shelter, to be a mother, care for my children, survive the ordeal with the state.
An ordeal brought on as a direct result of being in that environment to begin with.

I got up and walked out of the courtroom. I couldn't participate any longer. I would be evicted.

The next day I was served formal papers, and a notice was posted to the bedroom door by the brother. I had one week, no family, no friends who were willing to help me out given Marc's domestic violence charges. So I packed up what I could in my Honda Civic and left, not a clue where I would go.

I slept in the car, I found parking lots that were safe. I met some people who did a lot of drugs, they didn't care if I slept there a while. I missed court dates and was penalized, refused access to my son by Marc.

And all my belongings, a lifetime of precious things...were given away by the brother to his escorts, one piece at a time.

I had trusted this man, and been betrayed.

Through God's Grace, that I didn't know I had,  I survived. Even the loss of my dog Achilles The Magnificent,  who also met his fate at the hands of the brother. 

Marc was at Al's soccer practice two Mondays back. He is older now, but not apparently wiser. He shows up sporadically like he always has...on Marc's schedule.

He and the brother still live together, the brother paying bills Marc just can't seem to cover. They each have a recliner, positioned diagonally in front of the 50 inch screen. The brother...controls the remote.

Three Miles and Seven Years

Athena turns seven this month.
April is a roller coaster.

I started this blog one year ago to aid in the healing process over giving up my little girl... then I quit writing about her, about the entire five year ordeal with the state.

Prior to January  06, I had never turned on a computer. It was then I realized for the first time, it wasn't just me and my children, the government was snatching the equal opportunity kids right and left, all across the country...and no one could stop them.

It's for precisely the feeling I have in my stomach right now, that I stopped writing about it, and subsequently Athena. If you want to, you can read through the first month of archives, but I'd prefer not to go back there to link if you don't mind.

So I quit.
Because that's what I do well.

Just the fact I've managed to maintain this stupid blog for an entire year says I've learned something about commitment.
It only has one "T".

Four-years-ago on the 22nd of this month
I stood before the judge and knowingly, willingly, with full mental faculties, gave up my little girl.
I quit fighting.
I let go.
I gave up one child to get the other child back.
Hellish.

Al is eight-years-old.
Athena turns seven-years-old on the 20th of April.
They are close, my babies.

No, the foster/adoptive mother didn't make good on her promise of a continued relationship for the kids. Fear makes us do crazy stuff.

Like write letters to Judges filled with your version of the truth. Or doing things subconsciously (one prays), to interfere with the reunification process. Being unwilling to seek grief counseling, spend time with the biological mother, anything to help, not hurt, my every attempt to bond with the daughter they took from my arms nine hours old ...
Fear.
Fear you wont get something you want, or fear you'll lose something you have.

Do I forgive this woman? Would you? Could you? Think about it for a moment, think about your own children or the children you desire, your pregnancy, child birth classes, an abusive man no one will stop, a toddler at home, your growing belly, all you want is your children in your arms safe...you have no where to turn, no family, no living relatives.

The state failed to help me when the opportunity presented itself, giving my newborn baby girl to a foster mother on a waiting list for a newborn to adopt.

Now, imagine what the foster mother must have felt like: Waiting hoping for a newborn, praying for God's will to be done...(but please let your will include a baby of my own dear Lord). One day a social worker calls her and says they have a five-day-old baby that needs FOSTER care...would she be interested?  Can you imagine what it must have felt like, holding a healthy five-day-old baby girl in her arms after having prayed, cried, ached for one of her own for so many years. Now here's Athena in her arms, her life, her heart.

Was she expected to be a robot, or better yet, so highly evolved and superior in her capacity to control her feelings; she could turn them on and off as needed? What exactly did the state expect of HER?

Of course her mind twisted the truth, if it meant she could rationalize and justify clinging to Athena evertightly. If seeing things as she wanted and not as they were,  meant the dark haired angel from God would sleep in her arms just one more day...one more night...creating lifetimes.

Would I have done things any differently had I been her? No. In fact we are very similar in that respect, willing to go to any length to keep our babies safe from harm.
Real or perceived.

Every year since then on Athena's Birthday, I send a gift and card. So far I've gotten no response. Last year, I sent her Adoptive mother a card also. Nothing. Is it wrong to expect a response? To expect an acknowledgment of my sacrifice enabling her joy?

In the four years since I relinquished my rights, I have not once run into my daughter. They live three miles from me. What are the odds I would've run into them by now? Given the size of Oklahoma City, positioning of grocery stores, gas stations, movie theaters, shopping malls.

Now begins my search for the perfect gift, for a child I know nothing about, who I'm certain doesn't have a clue I exist. Honesty didn't appear to be her adoptive mothers strong suit, I'm suspicious she's chosen the wait-until-Athena-asks-if-she's-adopted route, as opposed to the one I always take with Al.

Dump-out-all-the-garbage-and-clean-up-the-mess-together route, which may not be the best, but it works for us. Al will never be able to say of his mother "That untrustworthy bitch".  He'll have plenty of other things to call me a bitch for.

Writing about Al brings me great joy.

Writing about my children is soul sorrowful.

It's like a dream really. There's a little girl who lives three miles from me, and she's my daughter.  She's going to turn seven-years-old in eleven days, and the woman who adopted her, a woman, a Christian just like me who loves her children...has never, not once in the fours years since I gave up my rights...sent me a picture, dropped me a note about milestones, inquired about Al, or at the very least...

Said thank you. (expectations again)

Yet I love, and have forgiven this woman with my entire heart. I could do no less and raise Al well. This was the first Holy Spirit interception in my life.

Now... I have a Bratz Doll to locate.

Easter

I just read a letter from my mom.
The really freaky thing is, my mom committed suicide twenty one years ago on the 16th of this month. As many years ago as I was old when she made her final, lucid, choice.
Fully aware for that brief moment, she was almost entirely consumed by a disease that steals your knowledge of having it before anything else.

Easter was Mom's Holiday. The one the most special to her, for reasons I had yet to learn. The last few Easter's she had with us, would find her weepy and wondering why...she had even lost the sacred by then.

As children, Easter  morning was characterized by a full on Bunny Blast, replete with huge baskets stuffed and overflowing with candy and toys.

What? Let an occasion to shower our precious babies with baubles and such pass? Never! Let the showering commence!

Once there was sufficient plastic grass strewn about one of the 3000+ sq ft homes we owed, the authentic European Brunch prep would begin. All to the tune of "Jesus Christ Superstar" playing in the background. Now, this was the early to mid 70's.  "JCST" was literally playing on a turntable...it was an album of the Broadway musical.

To this day, when I hear the score from "JCST" I start to cry...it's the closest I have to remembering childhood hymns sung by the choir. If you've never seen the film, please go rent it.  It's beautiful.

We would then all sit around The Table.
The Table was the one piece of furniture left over from normalcy...sort of.
The Watergate summer, Dad cut the legs off of this 300lb solid oak dining room table. Instead of us watching the tiny black & white set in the kitchen, he cut the legs off, about coffee table height, and we sat in the living room on pillows.

As time passed The Table lost it's finish, then one drunk night someone carved their name in The Table. Over the years, everyone carved their name in The Table. It was a member of the family, we did everything central to The Table...art, coffee drinking, homework, wrapping Birthday and Christmas presents, folding laundry.

Like a big warm relative you bring your life to and drop it in their lap, unfolding piece by piece until a Technicolor sense starts to be made of it all.

Then one day The Table was gone. I don't know what happened to The Table.
Then one day my Mom was gone. I don't know what happened to my Mom.

I like to picture her sitting at The Table, her olive skinned feet curled up underneath her, a gauzy peach blouse and denim cut-offs, with a menthol King in her left hand...

laughing bells Momma, laughing bells.

Splenda, The Platinum Sweetener

A  friend of mine gave me a really awesome gift yesterday...this is the kind of woman I will be friends with for many years to come.

A.  gave me a gigantic bag of Splenda.

Why Splenda you ask, Splenda is the Goddess of synthetic sweeteners. She wafts gently in your coffee, supplements your Honey Nut Cheerios, couples soothingly upon random fresh fruits, lavishing the moments when clothes will be cast aside, and suits of bathing will be donned!

Ah, Yes! Splenda, Goddess of my days and nights...I have missed your expensive taste upon my beer budget palate.

A true friend knows the angst, the turmoil with which we, as single mothers, reach tormented for "the pink stuff". No taste could be more wretched to the tongue!
In desperation the $1.88 bags of Pure Cane Fat make their way slowly but surely into our cart, cupboards, and Starbuck's mugs (the one with the handle broken off and the Chanel Copacabana lipstick on the lid)

The days pass, hours spent in front of the computer, the Internet your only friend, er...I mean the Internet a tool for communicating with your friends...
One day, your favorite position in your chair in front of the computer doesn't quite feel right. How odd? You check to see if the chairs been moved by any bears seeking porridge...
No sign of bears, hmmm?  You reposition yourself, but it's not the same...WHAT is it?

Then it hits you.
Holy Mother of Japanime! You've gotten fat again. This, this is not the least bit funny. Nor could your feelings be adequately depicted by cartoon violence.

Poverty has won again, wreaking havoc upon your underbelly, thighs, and upper arms. Tearing down the defenses you once had against all things Carb and Hydrate.

Oh Splenda, where for art thou Splenda? Splenda, Splenda, Splenda, Splenda! My compadre, my amore', the mother I never had!

For a friend to know your innermost desires, needs, wants,  and then to FILL that need...that Internet, is a friend indeed.

Under the Gun

There's no way I'll make the deadline for Social Security. No human being other than a CPA could maneuver these forms. I'm on the verge of a flippin nervous breakdown y'all.

I'm tempted to just mail in a huge manila envelope of receipts from the time period they want me to report.

These government agencies, employees who refuse to return phone calls, assist in any way, then penalize you for failure to comply with their request...
It seems like I'm always doing battle with SOMEONE in control of my life...it's that way for everyone.

I have 14 lbs of hair to wash and it's 5:22 a.m.

For Me

I used to live to blog...it was my life. I was very good at it, my writing, my humor. Now I'm buried under b.s. that has no place in the life of a writer.
I cannot continue to play the game and stay sane. Cannot continue to go seeking their truth. So I'm done. Not with blogging, for this is my one year anniversary this month.

But with writing for anyone but me.
Screw them.

Email To a Follower of...

I look forward to reading the link you sent, looks marvelous

As you can tell by now we didn't make it to church.
Al started complaining of an earache after we left Academy, so I brought him back here.
Some friends from meetings bought him the soccer gear he needs for tomorrow, and I got him the orthopedic inserts he needed. Wow, almost $30!
God is coming through, a little bit at a time.

I'll have you know I have paperwork that must be filled out for social security, due by the 7th.
I have no choice but to be honest about having spent the money on day to day living expenses in caring for Al.
If they choose to incarcerate me for being a good mother, then that's what I will have to face.
I did what I had to do to provide his needs, get him to school, physical therapy, keep him out of state sanctioned day care, I did my best, and God knows this.
Render unto Ceasar and such.

I'm terrible with numbers, and my system of keeping track is in my head.
I never throw away a receipt, ever.
Unfortunately the Government has a system that must be followed to a T, that I cannot successfully navigate. The paperwork that is.

I could ask for help, but I don't feel like it's available. Not from you or anyone else.
I have asked for help when I felt God wanted me to. Help with watching Al so that I could take the necessary home buyers class. Help with his soccer needs, and several other things. I do understand. It's not that, it's just not available.

It feels as if, unless I am a "Member" of your church I am not a part of the deal.
Like a stray, lost, beaten animal...shy to human kindness. Why on earth would I come bounding into anyones organization after the things I have experienced?
It takes time, patience, consistency...it is attraction not promotion.

What Louis did touched my heart. It was unorchestrated, spontaneous, full of love and kindness. What you did, getting me started with Amazon, the same.

I'm grateful as you'll never know for the financial help. But do not place expectations on me I cannot possibly meet.
No one has called me to check up, say hi, see if I needed anything, wanted a visitor, wanted to go get coffee, wanted to go hang out, come feed the ducks, take a walk, etc, etc, etc.

I'm a firm believer we are human doings, not human beings. We need human contact.
To expect me to come into your (sic) church, and you not come into my life. Hurts.

I've wanted to invite you to come to Life Church so badly, to share the passion for Christ that's there if you can look the other way of the stupidity (which I'm finding is in every church)
Wanted to say "This is my friend Barbara"
Not, "This is the lady I do bible study with" or "this is the lady who got me started in Amazon"
But I know you would not come.   Like Cindy, whom I practically begged to come...she never would.

You said to me "It doesn't matter what church Apostol, as long as you are a part of the body of Christ"
You mean, as long as I come to where the people are gathered...YOUR people.
Christ went out into the slums, the ghettos, He went TO the people...He did not sit in a building and say "Well, when the sick and lost get well and ready...they know where I am"

I saw a homeless man walking down my street this morning, back pack, bedroll, garbage sack full of belongings. He was filthy.
I knew he'd cut through the neighborhood from the highway, knew he was lost, alone, hungry on a Sunday morning brilliant and green.
I wanted to take him to church with us, but knew in my heart there wasn't a single church I knew of where he would be welcome.
So I prayed instead.

What exactly are the conditions to helping a fellow human being?

Life Church is putting together LIFE PAKS for the homeless. This makes people who have 'stuff' feel better about having all the 'stuff' they have.
The PAKS consist of the same old stupid homeless stuff  - toothpaste (for the bathroom at 7-11, if the clerk is decent) finger nail clippers (LOL) diaper wipes (for those not-so-fresh moments on the street) etc, etc,

The problem with this is it's dehumanizing.
I was out there, for three years on the streets, and I can tell you what I wanted.
I wanted a $20 gift card to the dollar store, so I could get what I needed by myself. Not a plastic baggy with some crappy toothpaste and a bible, so someone else could sleep better that night.
Sure, they may trade the gift card for a rock, but when they are ready to accept Christ, they'll remember what Church it was who gave them a moment of humanness.

I guess when we are ready to be like Christ we know where He is.