Our house was built in 1968. Our "master bathroom" (please notice the quotation marks) is pink. Pink wallpaper, pink tile, pink counters, pink sink, pink toilet. That's right, pink toilet. We have red carpet in the basement. I could go on and on.

But as I tell Holt, let's focus on the good. We have a yard that's like a park. Over an acre and a half in the city limits. Lots of mowing, no doubt, but... oh yeah, gonna focus on the positive.

We inherited rows and rows of muscadines. Seems the gentleman who lived here before fancied muscadine wine. We also inherited the extra three car garage he built out back to distill it. His winery has become our very large storage (read: junk) shed.

We are not muscadine lovers. As a matter of fact, I am a muscadine hater, but I do love that they attract these sweet spotted little muscadine-loving fawns. They also attract their moms, and occasionally we even catch a buck or two in the yard.

So if you see me sitting on the front porch when it's 98 degrees outside, it's because the view is so much better outside. And if you're particularly fond of muscadines, bring a pail and pick til your belly's content. Just save some for our friends.

7th Grade/ 2nd Grade/ Pre-K

The first day of school came abruptly and unwelcome on August 17th. After getting Baby Z in late June, the summer virtually flew by in a windstorm of bottles and diapers. Someone posted on FB the other day that there are a limited number of summers in every childhood, and part of me wonders if I missed this one. The bigger part of me knows the reasons were honest and worthy and that the things they learned (or will acknowledge later) were worthy as well.

Our mornings this year are even more insane than last year. Last year I wouldn't have thought that possible.

I have to drop of Baby Z with his diaper bag packed and full to last him through his visit in rehab with biological mom and his remaining hours at the church daycare where his transporter picks him up and returns him. I then have to make it to school with all my things for teaching, 3 backpacks, 3 lunches, a bag of dance shoes and Holt's karate clothes. I feel that by the time I get to my room, if my kids and I have all arrived with all our stuff and are on time, I've already had a successful day.

Here they are as we are about to attempt to leave and squeeze into the van amidst all the "stuff". Mouser's first hour is dance and Holt's is karate, therefore no cute matching school shirt pictures this year!

Two weeks down already. Is it a bad sign that Juliana knows exactly how many Tuesdays are left until the end of the school year?

Tiny Dancer

Mouse had her first dance class on August 10th. I've been waiting YEARS for this moment. I wanted so badly for her to dance last year, but she adamantly didn't want to and since it was her first year of preschool, I didn't push it.

But, finally, my Mouser was in a leotard and a pair of little pink ballet shoes. What could be sweeter than that?

Hot Rods

The thing about late July and early August is that we punch a lot of celebrating into a few weeks. Our anniversary falls two weeks after my birthday, so I consumed a lot of good food and had a lot of nights out crammed into a small period of time. I am now having to reprogram to my regularly scheduled life.

Oddly enough, Birch really did pull out all the stops (What does that even mean? My parents used to say that) for our 16th. I had mentioned wanting to try Henry's in Acworth because we've heard so much about it, so he made reservations and I got a babysitter. As I was cleaning the bathroom (the regularly scheduled life I was talking about), a 2010 Camaro pulls into the driveway. Walter goes crazy as this is surely some drug lord coming to kill us all. When I see Birch coming down the driveway, my natural thought is, "Oh, no. Something's wrong with his car and a buddy has brought him home." I'm computing the possible cost of this when he comes in and dangles the keys at me.

"Wanna go for a drive?"

For 18 or so hours, we pretended to be 20 again. Not like we had cars like this when we were 20.



After Brittany arrived, we blasted off like Cinderella hightailing it to the ball and headed towards Henry's. A few minutes into the drive, he tells me to reach behind his seat. Nestled in the 2 inches behind his seat (not like a minivan, you know) is a gift bag with a ring box.

Some of you might know our sordid past. For the rest of you, try to imagine something sordid. Triple it. Anyhow, my diamond ring is long long gone. For our anniversary, he had bought the setting for the ring of my dreams. The diamond we won't be able to afford for... ahem...several years more. But to say it was shocking, well, that wouldn't do it justice. We frankly don't have money for "unnecessary" things of that nature, just for fixing the garage door, putting braces on the eldest, saving for a new van (oh, the glamour!),... you get the picture.

We arrived at Henry's to find that they were taping a segment for ABC's Nightline. Henry's was picked as one of the top 20 People's Choice Platelist in the country. For good reason. We had scallops, crab cakes, Louisiana Oh La La! (and Oh My MY!), and an unbelievable slice of Nirvana called Cinnamon Chocolate Pie.

After the last plate was cleared, we hobbled upstairs to listen to some local music. A few songs into it, I leaned over and said, "Hey, listen. This is great and wonderful and all, but I really just want you to ride me around in that car." So we did.

And now part of the reprogramming to my regularly scheduled life is sitting behind the wheel of the minivan. Don't get me wrong. I love that I NEED a minivan. If I actually OWNED a 2010 Camaro it would mean that I didn't have any kids (because nothing much more than a ring box fits behind the front seat), but I sure wouldn't mind having one as a spare.

And although the night was unbelievable and filled with fine food, a fine ride and a beautiful ring, the best part of it all is the fact that I get to be his wife and share his home and his kids and his life. All the rest is just cake. Or Cinnamon Chocolate Pie.

Blessed

For the final 40th birthday blog, I would like to remember how I spent my ACTUAL 40th birthday. After my surprise party on Thursday, my over-nighter with Tara on Friday into Saturday, I really felt obnoxious still celebrating on Saturday evening with the family, but I managed.

I was so worn out (I am 40 now, after all), that we stayed local and went to the best little Italian dive I know, Pastabilities, in Taylorsville (where the Greatest Garlic Rolls on Earth are created).

I was presented with gifts all around, including a Shutterfly book made for me by Juliana (priceless).

We then swung by Blockbuster to rent a movie. We ended up renting Night at the Museum, which none of us had seen before. It was fabulously funny and the kids all loved it, even the grownups. Our evening ended better than we had feared after Mouse's meltdown over not bringing home The Princess and the Frog.

As my birthday wound down, I found myself in the place I like best...home...with the people I love most.

Roomies

For an unbelievable birthday treat, my college roomie, Tara, treated us to dinner at my very favorite restaurant, Harvest Moon, in Rome (so obviously not Italy),

dessert to go from the Honey Moon bakery next door, and a night to do nothing but channel surf and girltalk at the Hawthorn Suites, a renovated 1890 warehouse.

It was unbelievable gorgeous with Crabtree and Evelyn (my favorite!) freebies in the room! The next morning we slept late, ate breakfast in the dining room, browsed at the sweet little gift shop, and then I pulled myself together and headed home where such luxuries rarely bloom.

Luckily, she's turning 40 soon (ha!) as well, so we'll have to do some sort of birthday replay!

Yesterday I was 12

...and somehow I blinked and woke up 40.

For my birthday, my mom and Juliana (known in our family as the "cruise director") planned a little surprise party and totally got me. I'm usually pretty good at picking up on little surprises the kiddos plan, but this time I never saw it coming. Even when my dad and I pulled into the driveway smack facing the "Lordy, Lordy, Suz is 40" sign, it still never occurred to me. I guess it's just the age pickling my brain.

There were A LOT of candles on my cake.


My mom required help in lighting them. My "gifts" included bifocals, Fixodent, a coupon for a Hoveround, and other such encouraging items. With friends (family! Gasp!) like these...

My dear neighbors from down the street came in their fancy finest hats.

My fabulously funny friend, Kay-

and the masterminds behind it all-


Still not sure how I got here, but thankful for all His blessings!

It's odd to have someone blogging about events in your life through her own eyes. A lot of times it amazes me to see how Juliana expresses our shared happenings. Today I came upon this.

I could have never articulated this at 12. I also didn't really know Jesus then. I'm not sure I know Him now like she does.

The Powers That Be

Chronologically speaking there are about 8 other things I should be blogging about instead, but tonight the blog becomes the therapist's couch once again.

We had a home visit today from Z's caseworker, the once a month required visit. I was in no way prepared for the news she brought. She had mentioned to me on the phone a couple of weeks ago the slim possibility of Z going to live with his mother in rehab. She also told me that she would never make that recommendation. She perhaps failed to tell me that it really lay all on the judge's opinion.

Mom gets an 8 hour pass this weekend. If she can pass a drug test upon her return , she will be granted custody of him every other weekend. It's like she and I are divorced, sharing custody. He will go to live at rehab two out of every fourteen nights. Rehab.

Then, if that goes well and Mom is still "following her plan" and has been clean for six months total (keeping in mind she's been clean in JAIL and REHAB), he will go and live there full time. We should lose him right before Christmas.

Part of me wanted to say, "Wait right here and I'll go get all of his things and you can take him with you when you go." Instead, I will love him more everyday so that by the time he's gone, it will mathematically be an exponential amount of loss. Every day that I am his mother will multiply the hole he will leave behind.

His birth mother will never have had the opportunity to prove that she can care for him and stay clean outside the walls of a controlled environment. And people who make important decisions think this is a good one. I will not be given any visitation once she has him full time in rehab, yet if she fails (and do the math on those statistics), she will permanently lose him, DFCS will likely send him back to us, and he will have no idea who we are.

And this is a good idea.

I know from other foster moms that some caseworkers are reunification minded and others are more pro-foster. Some judges lean more towards birth parents, some towards foster. Some members of foundations with voices that matter (and there are many) lean more towards one than the other. It's all in the luck of the draw. I'm worried about my draw.

Why can't someone give her one of those simulated babies that cries every hour on the hour and must be fed, burped, changed, ... You know, like a real baby? Why must she see if she can really do this on a real life flesh and blood baby with a brain where actions matter and consequences are real?

I know I signed the dotted line on all this risk. That was when it was all an idea. Now it's real. The stakes are high. The consequences are great.

My God is sovereign. Please remind me of that every chance you get.