Oh, the Humanity!

So, as many of you loyal fans (all four of you) can imagine, after the roller-coaster ride of yesterday's court hearing, we were all in the need of some comfort food.

Comfort food, to the McCandless Clan happens to currently be RAXX Barbeque & Brewing Co. Justice is a ribs fan, Lil loves the pulled pork sandwich, and I love the hard pear cider.

Everyone is a winner.

About five minutes after sitting down, Justice starts complaining that her head hurts. Not a headache, mind you, but her head in the back, roughly the base of the skull. Lil and I did a quick huddle and decided that Justice was just a little miffed by having to say goodbye to her friends with whom she had played with for about eight hours.

Yeah, only eight hours of play.

We're real monsters.

Justice then turns on the water-works. It's amazing that a 9 year-old can do this at any time at the drop of a hat. I applied my usual Is-Justice-Sick test, which means I tickle her under her chin. She giggled and that confirmed our suspicions, nothing was seriously wrong with Justice.

But, unlike the usual pattern where Justice is caught performing for an audience, this proof didn't abate her protestations. The food arrived, and in a strange turn of events, Justice refused to eat.

No, seriously.

The child, when not saying "I'm bored" or "That's not fair" regards her third favorite saying of all time to be "I'm hungry." She eats like a teenage boy, one meal, constantly throughout the day into a pit only slightly larger than a black hole.

This is when my wife saddles up her horse, cocks her Henry rifle, sets spurs to flanks and rides to the rescue.

"Justice," she says in a stern-yet-what-the-hell-are-you-thinking tone, "Take your ponytail out."

I arched one eyebrow in my standard, what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about look.

Lil, in standard fashion, ignores me.

"But it HURTS!" Justice protests.

"Methinks the lady protests too much," some guy in tights and holding a skull retorts.

"Justice, it hurts in the back of your head," Lil persists in such a manner that would have put Admiral Farragut to shame.

You see, Admiral Farragut was the man who yelled the now famous "Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!" line. That's why it's funny.

Justice, tears streaming down her face, eyes seeking solace from any source, begins to comply. A moment later the tears stop, Justice rubs the back of her head and is sated, if not satisfied with the outcome.

I now urge every one of you good readers to write your congressman and request, no demand a warning label be attached to each and every ponytail older imported into the United States.

Or perhaps attached to every child.

I leave the choice to you.

The Envelope Please . . .

We begin all over again.

Yes, you heard it here first. The petition was reviewed by a new judge who, I must say, is very wise. He determined that originally the decisions were being made with Justice's step-father as the biological father, which we all know isn't true. In order to handle the matter correctly, various things need to occur, and that includes an evaluation by a psychologist of the potential harm/benefit of leaving Justice where she is or placing her with her biological father. It also requires an evaluation of Reggie (bio-dad, as the court system calls him) as a potential caretaker.

This is not, however, bad news.

As we said before, the more we learn about Reggie the better we feel about him. He was paying child support for Justice. He apparently has several other children that he takes care of. He has family support and he hasn't been in any real trouble.

The only downside is that Justice doesn't know the man. As stated earlier, given what we know about Carmen, this is hardly a bad thing.

So, we are renewed in our hopes that what is best for Justice will work out one way or the other. We are confident that Reggie is a good man and that he can provide the kind of support as a father that Justice needs. Either way, it looks like the system has really worked for one little girl.

Clearly, there is Justice in the world!

For Whom Does the Bell Toll?

Sunday night I had a rather strange dream about Justice. Lil and I, along with a few other foster parents, were taken to a kind of children's resort for foster kids. As we were walking in, we observed a young girl on horse back navigating her way up a steep incline. My thought was, "Wow, she's an excellent equestrian. They must have a great program here."

Apparently, even in my dreams, I try to impress myself with use of obscure and overly big words.

The house itself was more like a modern ski lodge. It was set on the side of the mountain and had a commanding view of the valley below it. Partially, it was set on stilts so that every level had windows that opened outward. The yard was immaculate and impressive, but the inside was somewhat cluttered. It appeared to be like a home where the daytime child-care parent (mother or father, how's that for PC from the 90s?) was just too tired to pick up after the rampage of toddlers and pre-kindergarten children.

That's not to say that the place wasn't clean, just untidy as any house can get with the addition of a child of any age.

The matron of the house, which is the only word I can think of that describes her, was an older lady with a pressence of authority and capability. She clearly knew what she was about and how to go about it. After a quick tour, which showed cubicles for all of the children where they could keep toys and whatnot, she said, "Alright, you just leave Justice here. She'll be well taken care of."

Initially, I was a little taken aback.

But then a calm came over me, and I knew that everything would be alright. I have no idea if the looming of the 16th is impacting me or not. I might just be preparing myself mentally to let go of Justice. I know that Lil is going through a tough time as well. We're balanced between making a life with this child, and getting ready to cut ourselves out of her day-to-day life.

The disonnance is palpable.

The Hits Just Keep On Coming

Last week was wonderful. Lil and I went to Girl's Camp where Lil was the director and I was the Director's Wife.

Role-reversal is alive and well in our family.

Justice stayed with here Granny (Rosaleen) for the first part of the week, where she got to play with her brothers quite a bit, and then stayed with my parents (Nana and Papa to the uninitiated) for the last part of the week. Nana takes Justice to Coco's for breakfast and so she's a big hit with the hot-chocolate loving 9 year-old.

The down turn came on Saturday or Sunday (I was too tired from archery, hiking, camping and pontooning to recall exactly) when Rosaleen called to tell us she had heard from Shirley (Justice's great-grandmother) that Carmen, Justice's biological mother, had been taken into custody for a host of issues. When she was, the warrents out for her in Riverside also came up, so she'll finally be facing those as well.

Now, I can't confirm or deny that Carmen is actually in custory. Nor do I know what the issues were, and I don't know if she's guilty, innocent or just getting some poetic justice, as it were.

As with the my love of sushi, I just don't know the truth.

The fun part was that it came up with Justice. Lil stated the facts as she knew them, but Justice, ever her mother's adoring fan, flatly denied that there could be any truth to these rumors. Yesterday, she insisted on calling Jonah (latest social worker) and hearing about it for herself. Whether or not Jonah will actually know the status of Carmen is open for question.

Jonah's primary concern, and rightly so, is Justice, not her mother.

This, of course, brings into interesting light the loyalty that children have for their parents. Good, bad or otherwise, even when we children hear or experience the worst that their parents can give them, they tend to be loyal up to, including and well beyond a fault. One is reminded of the medieval Japanese samurai who, if given the command, without being forced would fall to their knees, pull out thier shortsword, make not one but two cuts (one horizontal one vertical) into their stomachs and then, without making a sound, allow their own head to be cut off.

I'm not saying it's right or wrong, but it certainly should give all parents a moment of pause when thinking about raising their children. Tabla rosa - blank slate - is an apt description of how children arrive into this world, and anything can be written across that slate. Yet, unlike the blackboards of our school days, these slates cannot be wiped clean if a mistake is made. Hate, anger and abuse will always be a part of the graffiti as will any joy, kindness or wisdom.

Tell me again why anyone would want that responsibility?