Another wonderful and beneficial Sunday service! Aaaahhhh. There is nothing like the presence of God to put the trials of life in their proper perspectives.

After making our way through the after-service crowd in the church atrium, Bob, Anna, TJ, and I head for the parking lot. Bob and I stand beside our cars discussing the trip home and our afternoon
plans. Relieved that there is no need to go to the store or get gas, we each turn toward our respective cars anticipating an easy 30 minute ride home and lunch. As I begin buckling TJ in her carseat I hear Anna shouting "I need to stop at the store!". As I turn to acknowledge her, she puts her hand to the side of her face so no one can see her mouth the words, "I need pads."

I latch the final carseat buckle and can hear Bob's truck leaving the parking lot. I kiss TJ on her forehead, shut her door, and call for Anna. As I open the driver's door I call out for her again and slide into the front seat. No Anna.

"She did not just do this to me! No she didn't!" With frustration dripping from every syllable, I slammed the palm of my hand in to the steering wheel, picked up the phone with my other hand and speed dialed Bob.

Not knowing the righteous indignation waiting for him on the other end of his phone, he answers quite calmly, "Hello."

"Is Anna with you?"

He knows the tone. "What's going on and yes she is here."

"She's with you!?! UNBELIEVABLE! She wants me to stop at the store, get out of my car with TJ in this 98 degree heat and get her things while she just pops in the truck with you and goes on her merry way! Well I'm not doing it!"

Bob pulls the phone away from his mouth and talks briefly with Anna. He gets back to me with the decision that we will all meet up in the drugstore parking lot. He will leave her with me, she can purchase her items and ride home with me. 'Fine' I say to myself, but wonder why isn't he waiting in the parking lot and why am I not the one who gets to go home.

At 15 Anna does not like to do any public thing by herself including shopping. There must be someone with her at all times, because, as is obvious to only her - and every other 15 year old girl - everyone stares at her.

"TJ, do want to go shopping with me?"

"No."

"I'll get you a drink."

"No."

"I'll buy you some candy." Anna is pleading with TJ to accompany her into the drugstore for her small purchase, but is clear that TJ would like to remain cool in the car.

"Anna," I say, "You will just have to do this on your own." She gives a heavy sigh, an audible groan, and shuts the door.

Suddenly, from the back seat an outburst! "I wanted to go with her! Why didn't you let me go!" In my calmest voice I reminded her that it was she who said 'no' and not I. "I did not!" she screams.

"Christina. You need to calm down or you will go to your room a soon as we get home," I say firmly.

"NO I WON'T! I WON'T GO TO MY ROOM!" and with that she begins her loudest scream and kicking the back of the seat in front of her.

I am angry. You don't yell, scream, or defy this Momma! In my anger I fumble to get out of the driver's seat, stomp around the back of the car to the passenger side of the back seat, swing open the back door in a fury, fumble again to get her out of the winding maze of buckles and latches, pull her out of the door and stand her on the pavement looking at me. Defiant, arms locked in front of her,eyes glaring. I square her shoulders toward me and in no uncertain terms say, "You can scream all you want out here! I will not have you screaming in my car!" With that I stomp back to the passenger side, throw open the door and fling myself into the seat.

In the right side mirror I see TJ untangle her arms, wipe her tears away on her fore arm, her nose on the sleeve of her dress and then entwine her arms again. She is going to remain defiant, but quiet.  Keeping my eye on her I watch her peer into the car to see if I was looking and then turn back around again. Soon she drops her arms and begins picking at her fingers, looking around the parking lot and waiting for Anna to leave the drugstore.

I take a deep breath, get out of the car and walk slowly over to her. "TJ. Screaming at me is very disrespectful. You don't always get to do what you want. What if Anna did that every time she didn't get her way?" She giggles at the thought.

"I'm sorry, Momma."

We hug. I buckle her back into her seat and by the time I finish Anna rejoins us.

"What's going on?" Anna asks.

"Just life," and I force a smile.

Another wonderful and beneficial Sunday service! There's nothing like the presence of God to put the trials of life in their proper perspectives

Holy Moley!

TJ and Anna were giving themselves the final inspection before they headed out the door for their first day of school. They parted their lips and studied their teeth for breakfast remnants. TJ wetted her hair to make it straight while Anna added a little more grease to hers. Anna moved into the mirror for an examination of the new, bright red pimple on her nose and TJ did the same.

"Momma."

"What is it TJ?"

"What's this?" She pointed to two tiny brown dots on her neck.

"Those are moles, TJ. Everyone gets those. See. I have some here and here and here."

"Momma, am I turning black?"

Anna was unable to control her laughter and I tried desperately not to embarrass TJ by giggling at her innocent question. Anna could not contain the urge to goad her sister. "Yeah, TJ. I had a mole once. Then I got another, and another and another. Just look at me now!"

"Really?" TJ asked incredulously.

"Really! I looked just like you when I was five."

"Really?" TJ furrowed her brow in deep thought. "No. I don't think so. I think you were born that way and I was born this way. I'm not turning black . . . am I Mom?"

We all grinned and giggled and then the sisters picked up their respective book bags, sashayed out of the house babbling and began their new school year.

Distressed

I read the number of the incoming call - Children's Social Services. Dread.

"Ms. Lillis?"
"Yes"
"This is Miranda at CSS. How are you this evening?"
Irritating niceties. "I'm good, Miranda. What's going on?"

"We have several children that have just come into our custody and we need to find placements for them. There are two sibling groups. One group is a five year old boy, his four year old brother and an 18 month old sister. The five year old tested positive for drugs. The others are two sisters. The older is two and the younger is four months old, in a full body cast in the hospital. She won't be out for a while." She paused. I wanted to vomit. What kind of savage does this to his babies? "Can you help?"

My thoughts were tripping over each other. Will TJ be kind? Where will we put them? How many can we take? Can I handle more children?
"Ms. Lillis," Miranda interrupted my racing thoughts,"You know you don't have to take the whole group . . . if you could help with just one of them . . . ." her voice trailing off, expectations fading.

Our county has only five licensed foster homes. Three - no four of them are full. If Miranda cannot find a home placement the children will probably all be split up and sent to different group homes around the state. Other counties haven't enough homes for their children either and the group homes are full. Emergency shelters are set up to keep children for no longer than a month. As if the eminent separation of the brothers and sisters is not enough, the staff at the homes have instructions NOT to hold or touch the children unnecessarily to keep them from bonding to closely with the staff. Bonding complicates the next transition making it all the more emotionally difficult on the children.

"I'm sorry, Miranda. Bob and I just added our 12 and 24 month granddaughters to our family for an indefinite period of time and we have TJ and Anna. I am so sorry."

Miranda will keep calling til morning if she must, hoping against hope that there is a family that will take one or more of these children.

Blonde-headed, Green-eyed Monster

Without a thought, TJ places the heal of her Sunday sandal over 4 year old Connor's exposed toes, bears down and grinds. He lets out a high pitched screech.

"TJ!" Anna yells, "Don't do that!" TJ flashes her a defying look, but in a voice sweet as honey replies, "I didn't mean to."

 "Don't be mean to Connor. He is your nephew and you don't be mean to nephews!" Anna's attention drifts back to her vampire tale until she is sharply interrupted by Connor's screaming. Her eyes flash up in time to see TJ's heel still twisting on Connor's toes. "CHRISTINA!" Anna roars.

As if she had been the one hurt, TJ whines, "It was an accident."

"No it wasn't! You did that on purpose!"

Considering herself reprimanded and fearful that Anna will tell Bob or me, she takes a remorseful air, looking down to the floor, softly she responds, "I'm sorry. I won't do that again."

Hours later, sitting at the dinner table, Connor begins his winding tale of what transpired during Sunday School. In the midst of his list of Jesus's attributes he divulges, "and her punched me in the stomach" to which TJ retorts, "That boy hit me in the head!"

"Who hit who first?" I asked, expecting an honest answer.

"That girl hit me in the head then I punched her in the stomach."

Bob and I pass confounded looks between ourselves. What has happened to our sweet TJ? She has been abducted and a blonde-headed, green-eyed monster has consumed her.

Connor has caught the brunt of TJ's antagonism. Under the dinner table he has endured constant kicking and pinching. While playing he has had his arm twisted until he cries out, toys have been hidden in the vacuum cleaner, between TJ's bed and wall, under piles of dirty clothes, and she squirrels away his few toys that she wants as her own.

Not only has she withheld her toys and space, but resolutely she will not share Bob or me. Holding Connor on my lap signals TJ's green alarm catapulting her into a quiet subversive mode. She gently pries him from my grip in the same manner a starfish opens an oyster - slowly, methodically sliding her fingers, then hand, arm followed by shoulder and upper body. Before he knows what has happened, Connor finds himself replacing TJ on the floor and she is resting comfortably on my chest.

Connor will be leaving soon and we will get our sweet TJ back. Bob and I, however, are at a loss on how to handle her jealousy. The next time Jordan, Micah, or Jeremiah come over for a visit her green eyes will flare again. Bob and I wonder, is it possible to love the monster out of her?

Monster Mom

I am, for the most part, an even-tempered individual. I rarely feel the need to raise my voice to any of my children . . . or husbands . . . except the first and he had it coming. My parents didn't yell; I didn't yell; my kids don't yell.

Please don't misunderstand. I distinctly remember shrieking at my 17 year old son the day I put him out of our house. More than a few regrettable words exploded viserally. When I ended my diatribe my throat was raw, my voice dropped an octave, and I sounded like I was channeling Marlena Dietrich. The calm, quieter approach has not been so effective with TJ who is strong-willed, bull-headed, cantankerous, ornery, etc. Take last Sunday for an example.

Sunday morning 7:15 am
"OK Momma. Bye"
"I'm not leaving yet. TJ. Listen carefully. I will be at Grandma's and Pawpaw's helping Grandma while Pawpaw goes to church."
"OK"
"Do you remember where we put your church clothes?"
"Uh-huh."
"Where are they?"
"I dunno."
"You picked out your red ploka dot dress and hung it on my door. Don't forget to brush your teeth, comb your hair and help
Daddy."
"OK."
"One more time TJ. Where is your dress?"
"I dunno." I repeated it all once again and left for my parents.
10:30 am
I met Bob, Anna, and TJ in the church parking lot and noticed immediately she was wearing her very wrinkled, green, flowered dress. "What happened to the polka dot dress?" TJ was out of ear shot. "She couldn't find it," Bob answered quite calmly. Apparent to me was Bob's lack of understanding that TJ had picked that red dress out. I ironed out, very meticuously, every wrinkle in that cotton frock, she hung it on the door, I reminded her twice this morning where it was and she has the audacity to come to church in her crumpled, green flowered dress!

1:00 pm
We arrived back home from church, ate lunch and then, the coveted Sunday afternoon nap.

2:30 pm Anna went to her room, Bob to the couch, and I to my bed. TJ went to her room which is directly above mine. I laid down on top of the covers, pulled a pillow over my eyes, and settled in for a quiet hour.
Thud! 'What was that,' I wondered.
Thump! 'This is not good.'
Thump thump thump in rapid succession.
Too tired to rise, I laid there for a few more minutes hoping . . . quiet. THUD! 'One more thud and I'm going up there!'
Quiet.

An hour and a half later I had forgotten about the thuds and thumps and set about shooing everyone out to the pool while I worked on some dinner.

7:30 pm
Because TJ has been considerably grouchier then normal, I have moved her bedtime back to 7:30. She doesn't seem to mind. Turning off the TV is a bit of a stumble. "Bedtime, TJ." Ever so slowly she lifts the remote in the air, points it at the TV and holds it there. . . holding . . . holding . . . . But this time: "Bedtime, TJ." She snapped that TV off, ran past me, through the living room, up the stairs and all the while her arm extended, hand out, palm facing me, saying, "Momma! you can't come up yet! I have something I have to do! I'll let you know when you can come!" Whirls of thuds and thumps thundered back. Oh my goodness! What has she done?

7:45 pm
From the top of the stairs comes a confident, "OK Momma. You can come up now!" Then, as is our ritual, she runs to her room, closes the door and waits for me to knock.

Knock, knock, knock.
"Come in." Cautiously, I opened the door. Wow! her room was surprisingly neat!
"Why TJ! Your room is very nnnnnnnnnnn . . .," my searching eyes spotted the blue velvet case, open and empty, under the crib.

Here it comes . . . I couldn't stop it . . . ."IF I'VE TOLD YOU ONCE I'VE TOLD YOU A MILLION TIMES 'IF ITS NOT YOURS KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF IT'!!! WHERE IS THE FLUTE!!!!! WHY DON'T YOU LISTEN! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU?" and on and on and on I ranted.

TJ, terrified, scrambled to get into bed, pulled the covers over her head, and burst forth in shaking and sobbing. Callused to her wailing, I got on my knees, hunkered under the crib to retrieve the empty case and there, pushed next to the wall, were the three peices of my flute. I gathered them into my arm, squeezed back into open space, righted myself, and noticed the quivering covers. I found my center once again.

"Are you ready for your Bible story?" Monster Mom asked her quivering child.
Pulling the covers back down, revealing a reddened splotchy face, TJ spoke in her most mature voice, "Well. You didn't have to scream at me, Mom." I shrunk to this (.) big. I had been out matured by my 5 year old daughter.
I drew in a deep breath. "I am very sorry,TJ. Will you forgive me?"
"Yes, Momma. and I'm sorry for getting into your stuff."
I explained why I became so frustrated (because I repeat the same things and she keeps doing the same things) and she explained why she played with the flute (because it was there). We finished up our routine as we always do: a Bible story, hugs, kisses and tucks into bed.
"Goodnight TJ. I love you to the moon."
"Goodnight, Momma. I love you to the moon and back."

Score One for Momma!

"I hate that!" TJ screamed at me from the living room. "I DON'T WANT TO!"
"Go to bed,TJ. Your day is over."; I raised my voice over the irritating sounds of Sponge Bob.
I could hear her twist her head, roll her eyes, and throw her hair as she thought she beat me to the punch. "I already was!" she shouted. She stomped up the stairs, slammed the bedroom door and I, right behind her, stomped louder and harder. She slammed the door in front of me. I was fuming!

The day began much like it ended. TJ woke up cranky. Cranky morphed into defiance; defiance mutated into belligerence and belligerence got her sent to bed.

With fervor I grabbed the knob and thrust that door open. TJ stood beside her bed, arms crossed, brow furrowed, head bent just enough to maintain her glare, eyes welled up with angry tears . . . and I softened.
"You were very disrespectful to me tonight. You screamed at me and I did not deserve that. You were disobedient, too. Because you refused to put on your pjs, you may not wear them to bed tonight."

Meltdown. She flung herself across her bed, her face buried in one of her many pillows, and wailed, "But I want to wear my jammies"

Not only today, but this entire, long week, had been profuse with 'no! I don't want too's' and  'I'm not going too's' punctuated with mocking sarcasm and sassiness. Flashing her a disapproving look or enunciating her name ever so cleanly received a pleasant, but insincere, 'Oh. I'm sorry, Momma.' 

Now I am taking charge!

I rubbed TJ's back and explained one more time that it was she who decided not to put on her pajamas and that was the way it would be. Her crying settled into sniffles. She rolled her head over, blinked back some tears, and asked if she could take off her jeans.

"I'm sorry, Momma. Tomorrow I will be a good girl."

"You are a good girl, TJ and I get upset sometimes, but I always love you." With that, she pulled off her jeans, found her Bible and we finished off our day with prayers, hugs, and kisses.

The next morning, TJ woke up still in her clothes from the day before. Score one for Momma!

Anna's Jam

"I'll do it!" Anna exclaimed, excited at the prospect. "You go! Take care of Grandma tomorrow and I'll make the jam!"
'This could be bad,' I thought. 'She breezes through instructions, leaves out ingredients, walks out of the kitchen leaving things cooking on the stove.' Visions barreled through my mind: peach parts fallen in layers to the floor, splattered on the counters, stools, cabinets and frig, froth spilling over the pot, onto the stove, gooey streams oozing down the sides of the stove caught by the wall.
"This could be ugly," I said quietly.
"Huh?"
"Anna, I just don't know. You've never done anything like this before. You've never helped or even watched me make the jam." But then I looked at the breakfast bar with layers of tiny 2nd year peaches almost too ripe to use. The jam had to be made or little peaches would be pecked to the pit by chickens. In reality, I thought, it would take Anna at least four hours to skin, pit, and chop four cups of those minuscule fruits. "OK." It was a very reluctant concession.
"Alright, Mom!" Anna quickly found pencil and paper. "Tell me what to do." I recited the short list of ingredients, a set of cooking instructions and brought seven jelly jars out of the garage and into the kitchen. I reviewed the instructions again. "MA! I GOT IT! I'LL BE FINE!"
The next morning, while Anna still slept, I left for my parents. Since I was not at home, I assumed Anna would probably sleep until 11:00 am. I would probably be home close to 1:00 pm. What could happen in two hours?
11:30 . . . the dreaded call from Anna. Is she hurt? Scalded? Cut off a finger? Was there a fire? Is the house still there?
Trying to sound calm, "Hi, Anna. How's it going?
"Hi Momma!" She sounded as if she hasn't seen me in days and was excited just at the sound of my voice. "Everything is fine, Ma. I just have one question."
Here it comes.
"Why are the peaches turning brown?"
Is that all? Brown peaches? I sucked in some oxygen, slumped in a chair and gave her a short answer to her question. "I'll be home in an hour, Anna. Be careful," and I hung up the phone.
An hour and a half later I was on the way home. Thirty miles seems interminable when one's imagination has no limits. I buttressed myself as I entered the house.
There at the stove stood Anna . . . stirring . . . stirring what looked liked 5 cups of sugar. I glanced around the kitchen and, yes, there was a mess, but nothing unusual. She had followed directions to the tee. She had just begun the cooking and I was as proud - and relieved -  as could be. I helped her sterilize the jars, check for jellying, fill the jars, and process the finished product.
Anna's jam is a success and so is Anna, who beams with pride every time someone asks for jam for their biscuits.