Impending Doom

Two Boys, No Sleep

2011-03-04T08:07:00.000-08:00

Two kids, no matter the combination, generally equates to a lack of sleep and a general dislike for your spouse. Not a "real" dislike, but more the frustrated, illogical, insane reaction to getting up every night, several times a night, to answer the screams, cries, and calls for your attention to do "something". The something may or may not be defined depending on the age of the child.

For example, my 10-month old doesn't really articulate his particular needs very well. He might be cold, hungry, thirsty, dirty, need his binky, or just need some attention. It’s a total crap-shoot which it is.

So this can be, understandably, frustrating.

On the other hand, my 3.5 year-old does articulate pretty well, but that doesn’t necessarily alleviate the frustration:

“DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!”

Open door, bleary eyed, lacking sleep, “Yes Porter?”

“I need to hug you.”

As tender-hearted a moment as that can be, I assure you at 2am, lacking sleep from child #2, you aren’t going to be nearly as touched. You’ll give the hug, because, ya know, awesome. But still, you’d prefer to have gotten a good night’s rest to properly appreciate the moment.

The Queen Maker

2010-10-11T12:54:00.001-07:00

Friday was the homecoming football game for JW North (we lost, big) but it was also the night for Porter to shine. He was asked to crown the Homecoming Queen and insisted on wearing his best clothes to the occasion (although daddy spent most of the night tucking his shirt in). Porter quite enjoyed rooting for the football players (both teams) and often yelled out, “Get it football!”

With five minutes on the clock (which translates into 15-20 minutes in real life) we walked down to the field for our instructions. We didn’t receive any. Undaunted, we queued up with the rest of the group and then we waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . .

Porter was a bit agitated by all this waiting, until we found the kicker’s net and balls, which I told Porter he could throw into the net. He was almost recruited on the spot by the opposing team’s coach, but because he had a job to do, he turned down the offer.

Graciously, very graciously.

There was some concern, ten minutes before he actually walked out onto the football field to crown the queen, that he might require some assistance. He was getting quite tired, and decided to cuddle up in his favorite place for a little rest: dad’s arms.

But when the moment came for him to carry the crown and march out to meet the new royalty, he seized the opportunity with gusto, strode with authority, and placed the crown on the queen’s head with enthusiasm.

Cutest. Boy. Ever.

Two Peas

2010-07-07T15:44:00.001-07:00

Tristan and Porter are two awesome kids. They should be Captain Awesomeness and Lord Excellent. They’re just that cool.

But they’re certainly different kids. Where we spent the better part of a year trying to get Porter to sleep through the night, and then letting him have his “coffee time” after he woke up (screaming) Tristan is much more chill about the whole matter. It’s being awake that annoys him. Almost from day one, he was sleeping 4-6 hours at night, and more recently, except for feeding, he sleeps a good 6-8 hours.

Such a shift from waking up every 2-3 hours with Porter.

Porter, meanwhile, is undergoing his first swim lessons. Mostly this consists of him being held by me in the water. He genuinely likes the water, he just doesn’t want to put his face in or blow bubbles. Honestly, what kid doesn’t want to blow bubbles?!

Lillian's thoughts

2010-05-30T17:32:00.000-07:00

I just have a few things to add to Rob’s blog. It was scary when Rob lost his job but we have been blessed to have him get into a new job really quickly. The job is closer to home than his last job which is so nice. To have him home earlier in the day to spend more time with the family has been heavenly.

Tristan’s pregnancy went really well. I was able to work up to two days before my due date. I ended up being late. My contractions started two days after my due date. I started feeling contractions in the middle of the night and woke Rob up about five thirty in the morning to take me to the hospital. The admitted me right away and hooked me up to an IV. I was given an epidural about eight in the morning. Around ten thirty I had not progressed beyond four centimeters so they gave me something to increase the contractions. Around eleven I was in pain again and they checked and I was dilated to nine and a half centimeters. About that time everyone squeezed into the delivery room and after a few pushes Tristan was born. He weighed seven pounds twelve ounces and was twenty and a half inches long. It was a nice experience. Rob was able to spend the night and we had the room to ourselves. There was also a shower in the room which was a great feature. Overall I was really impressed with the hospital and the staff.

I accepted the head volleyball position around February, right in the height of the debate season. Part of me definitely wanted to say no but part of me has wanted to be a head coach for a very long time. So after talking it over with Rob I decided to take the job. I am so excited for the upcoming season. I have the world’s best assistant coaches. They have really helped me during the time I am off with the baby. It has been a huge blessing to have them by my side. We have been working the girls hard but I am sure it will pay off come the season.

The Year in Review

2010-05-30T17:20:00.001-07:00

Greetings everyone. I know it seems like it’s been a year since I’ve posted, but that’s simply not true. I’ve been posting with invisible pixels. Muahahaha.

But in case you don’t have you forgot your secret decoder ring and X-ray glasses, let me bring you up to speed, sans hilarious jokes:

Last April, I was laid off from my job. It was something of a shock, but I was far from the only one, and certainly not one of the first to be let go. It was interesting, as we kept getting email from the company president saying how well things were going and how much the company was earning. But no, I’m not bitter.

So, instead of binge eating and drinking, I stayed home with Porter, and binge exercised. Lil became the breadwinner for the family, and I joined millions of daddies around the country watching the kids, cleaning the house, and accepting monthly bribes from the government to stay that way.

It was great when Lil was off for the summer, as it afforded us a very rare chance to travel and feel like we were on a crazy-long vacation. We traveled to Idaho and visited Lil’s family for a couple of weeks, where we spent the Fourth of July, and then down to Vegas to spend time with my parents, where Porter went to his first Wiggles concert (Anthony was on FIRE!).

About four or five weeks into being laid off (and about three weeks after the initial panic) I received a call from a company close to us that I had actually applied to prior to being unemployed. They ran me through a series of interesting interviews and eventually offered me a position. Lil says we were really blessed, I call it blind-dumb-crazy-luck. The interviews lasted several weeks and went through just about all 2,000 employees before they actually got down to salary negotiations. I started in August and all has been well.

That is, until Lil informed me that we were preggers again! I know, you would have thought we’d have figured it out the first time. But no, Tristan was on the way and there was nothing we could do about it.

Lil started her fourth year at her school, and we began our second year as coaches for the school’s debate team. Nothing very exciting to report there, some students were good, others mediocre, there was joy and sadness and anger and happiness and some frustration and lots and lots of learning.

With the arrival of Tristan, Lil also received a notice of termination. She had just been given the head-coaching position for her school’s volleyball team, so it was something of a confusing time. We’re still not certain where we stand with that, but perhaps we’ll be blessed or have more crazy luck.

Lil also decided that she would like to start blogging. So now that you’re brought up to date on the major events, I’ll introduce you to the latest contributor to this online article writing fun!

Porter Pictures

2009-03-09T08:53:00.000-07:00

Here's some pictures of Porter for everyone. Not the best, but what do you expect from a device whose primary purpose is telecommunications?

Porter decided that he had sweat equity in the cupcake frosting enterprise at our friend Mindy's house.

Here's Porter out in the rain. Yes, he's a boy.

Here's Porter at debate practice. He's currently spreading an argument showing how the neg team's nuke war disad is outweighed by the hegemony argument and the alien intervention cards.

And yes, judge, cuteness is a voter.

He Knows!

2009-03-06T08:53:00.000-08:00

Porter has not officially said any words in the context that would suggest direct linguistic communication. He babbles “dada” and “mama” but he has never pointed to Lil and said, “mama” or pointed at her and said “dada”. I’m not certain he’s pointed at anything. Usually he just looks at you, screams, and assumes that his psychic message has gotten through.

This has a success rate of about 85%.

The rest of the time we assume he’s tired and needs a nap.

But Porter has recently stumbled upon a piece of direct linguistic communication.

“Mmmmm,” Porter says after putting a piece of food in his mouth.

We know he got this from us, as we would try to prompt him to feed himself, watching as clumsily used utensils become apple sauce trebuchets, flinging the wet, cold, sticky substance near and far. Or, alternately, when its something he is definitely not going to put in his mouth, he employs the “clean sweep” method: quickly sweeping everything in front of him onto the floor.

Improvements are slow, from the perspective of parents who have to clean up mess after mess, but quick in the overall scheme of things. Just 8 months ago he’d never walked, didn’t know how to give kisses, and hadn’t grasped the excitement of “high fives” with anyone.

So this breakthrough in understanding, the connection between actions and verbal response, is quite impressive. He knows that when you put something in your mouth you like, you say “Mmmmm.”

Porter versus Curious George

2008-12-11T09:26:00.002-08:00

It's really too bad you can't hear the sound on Blogger. I'm still not certain what the problem is. But anyone who wants to, I can email this video to you. Just make certain the sound is down. Porter has an impressive set of lungs and the ability to hit notes no human should be tampering with around glass.

Old Photo I Stumbled Across

2008-12-11T09:26:00.001-08:00

Just thought you might enjoy this pretty decent shot from my cell phone:

Practice Makes Perfect

2008-11-07T15:42:00.003-08:00

Now, he's ready for the Superbowl!

Porter Picks a Profession

2008-11-07T15:32:00.000-08:00

Porter will follow his grandfather as a plumber!

Where Porter REALLY Came From!

2008-11-05T16:26:00.006-08:00

That's right, we picked him from the pumpkin patch.

Silly Me

2008-10-06T14:34:00.003-07:00

So I thought when I spent $18,000 on a car seat for Porter that it could, you know, last him through his toddler years. I was actually impressed with myself for making this wise purchase.

I was wrong.

The car seat he’s been safe and sound in for the past 12 months is now no longer suitable for his 20lb-plus frame. I now must do RESEARCH and then SHOP for an APPROPRIATE car seat. I’m told these seats are more expensive, so anyone who owes me money (and you know who you are) cough now!

Congratulations on your Six Month Old

2008-10-06T14:34:00.001-07:00

Me (holding a crying, angry Porter after receiving his panel of three shots): We need to make his next appointment.
Nurse: What age will he be? Nine months?
Porter: What the HELL woman! Can’t you read a chart?! Can you do simple math!? I’m 12 months now. In 3 months I’ll be 15 months. I’m PETITE for my age. This has saved my parents countless dollars and frustration as I am only now into my 9-12 month onsies. So SHUT IT!
Me: Yeah, he’ll be 15 months.

Weekend Update

2008-09-30T12:12:00.000-07:00

Porter turned 1 over the weekend.

He got clothes, toys, and a Wii.

Extensive testing of the Wii system is now on-going.

Where's Porter?

2008-09-22T15:58:00.002-07:00

There he is!

Yes, this is his favorite game.

Don't Fear the Reaper

2008-09-19T11:08:00.002-07:00

A baby cuter than Porter? Surely not! And yet, would I bring it to your attention if it was not true.

It's true.

But we'll keep Porter anyway. For now.

Buried Alive!

2008-09-15T13:40:00.000-07:00

Your Souls Will Be His

2008-09-05T07:57:00.002-07:00

Porter needs blood for his undead army!

WORLD DOMINATION

2008-08-28T10:44:00.006-07:00

He's a Pepper!

2008-08-25T07:46:00.002-07:00

Yes, that's Dr Pepper I'm luring him with. No, I am not a good parent.

2008-08-22T13:25:00.001-07:00

A natural force of destructive chaos:

Breaking News

2008-08-19T14:41:00.001-07:00

Porter took four steps on his own at the park today. Witnesses indicated he wanted someone's sippy cup and he just kept walking.

Problems

2008-08-15T13:31:00.009-07:00

So, some folk have reported problems with the sound on the videos. Lil and I have had the same problem at the homestead, so I'm thinking it's not restricted to anyone's computer, but an issue with the transfer of videos to the blog.

Now, knowing almost nothing about videos, video blogging, or blogging in general, I'm uncertain what the issue is. Obviously, some of what I'm writing doesn't make much sense, since you can't hear Porter's voice.

We've been using our Motorola RAZR phones to take the pictures, then send them to my email where I can save and post them to the blog.

Anyone with more knowledge than I (so everyone) is invited to impart their wisdom.

What's in a Raptor

2008-08-11T16:25:00.001-07:00

Veloci-Porter, the latest discovery by semi-fictional scientists. A living specimen of the now extinct giants who once rules the earth. What's most intriguing about the Veloci-Porter, is it's hunting call. A loud, long, sustained, high-pitched screech, followed by a nerve-shattering gasp and cough. Then, the Veloci-Porter, sighting his prey, will smile, wickedly, flashing his two bottom teeth and the three on the top about to come in.

A terrifying experience for the unwary.

Who Do You Love?

2008-08-01T14:15:00.000-07:00

Wait til the end. All will be clear.

Abu Ghraib All Over Again

2008-07-31T12:14:00.000-07:00

I submit these shocking videos for your consideration:

I'm certain to be called in for a Senate hearing on the question of whether tickling is considered torture. My vote: yes.

We've lost too many good men to this method.

A Genetic Love of Books

2008-07-29T08:42:00.000-07:00

Proof that genetics rules us all:

In Singles or Pairs

2008-07-28T09:36:00.000-07:00

Porter's first interaction with a Slinky was totally unexpected. The things this kid finds joy in, and which then translate to us as you can tell from my goofy grin and repeat showings of the Slinky's powers:

Mommy First

2008-07-25T11:41:00.000-07:00

In all things there must be balance.

Porter said, "Dadadadada" first.

This morning, when he started screaming (He never cries. Never, never, never, never, never. He doesn't like to waste time when he can scream.) I rushed to him, scooped him out of bed, and began to change him. Even his onesie was wet. Lil came in to help, because Porter kept screaming. He does this until all wrongs are righted, and America's children can all read.

He screams a lot.

As soon as we had him changed and dry, I picked him up, but he saw mom was there and leaned out of my arms, into her, rested his head on her shoulder, and immediately went back to sleep.

Yeah. Thanks little buddy. We'll see how this pans out when you want a pony!

No Mr. Bond, I Expect You To Die!

2008-07-18T08:57:00.000-07:00

I picture my son from the neck down, sitting in an overstuffed leather armchair I've never noticed before, a white cat on his lap. Like the armchair, stuffed, of course. He’s an infant after all.

Gently, he strokes the fur, and then his voice:

“So, Mr. Dad, we meet again.”

My son is an evil mastermind of Blofeld proportions. His vicious enmity is not in the form of world domination, but he’s young. He’ll get there. No, he rules his SPECTRE-like organization with a cunning that belies both his age and his giggle when you blow zerbits on his belly. His aim: the complete and utter loss of parental sanity through sleep-depravation.

You may have read the report that his reign of terror ended some time ago.

The reports of that demise have been greatly exaggerated. He took a brief hiatus, then returned with renewed vim and vigor, a more penetrating scream, and tears that could melt a Terminator’s non-existent heart.

Yes, he’s that good.

So, this morning, as I staggered into his room, he sat in the yellow cone his nightlight carefully angled to hide his grinning, bald head. My hand stumbled awkwardly toward my Walther PPK in the form of a bottle. He was unmoved by this threat.

“Surrender, I’ve already won,” he told me, with a cruel laugh.

“No,” I said, my resolve was shaky. “I’ll never join you!”

“And yet you are here.”

“Hah! That’s where you’re wrong,” and now it was my turn for a laugh, even though you shouldn’t laugh at your children.

His petting of the stuffed cat stopped.

“How so?”

“This is just a dream. If it were real, you wouldn’t be talking.”

“Oh.”

*vanishes in a poof of Adamsian logic*

Porter's First Novel

2008-07-16T08:44:00.000-07:00

Yes, the reports are true. My son, in addition to being a runner, volleyball player, scientist, speaker of at least three foriegn languages (Zombie, Dolphin, and Hypersonic), and rock-climber, is now becoming a writer.

Witness the awesome might of this fully-armed and operational Great American Author.

$5 Million Dollars Later

2008-07-05T08:41:00.000-07:00

Turns out a cheap plastic plate is all it takes to entertain my son.

You might have to turn up your volume.

Virgin Sacrafices Do Work

2008-06-05T14:04:00.000-07:00

Now, I'm not advocating the use of violence, drugs or alcohol. I'm just saying . . .

We are currently *knock on wood* running six whole nights *knock on wood* with Porter sleeping straight through *knock on wood*.

Sing with me, brothers and sisters!

"Celebrate good times, c'mon!"

He Knows

2008-05-30T14:44:00.000-07:00

One of the fears most parents have is that someday, without warning, their child will be better than them. Smarter, faster, stronger . . . able to leap tall buildings in a single cliche.

Part of this is because time is on their side. Children, by definition, are younger than their parents. While we're growing older, they're growing up. We've passed our prime, and they've yet to reach their's. It's a patently unfair system, but it's the only one we've got.

Enter Porter.

The kid smiles like grins are on sale. Not all the time, mind you. He has a serious side as well. But I'm convinced he knows he's keeping his mother and I awake and away from anything approaching a full night's sleep, and he's playing us like marked cards.

It's like a less athletically capable Stewie saying, "Yes mother, I AM cute, aren't I."

"Oh, father, here's a smile to warm the sub-cockles of your heart!"

Damned if it doesn't work every time.

Eight Month Report

2008-05-21T14:05:00.001-07:00

I know I've been lax on reporting the joys and sorrows of fatherhood and parenthood and baby-boyhood.

No excuses. No, we haven't slept in over eight months. No, Porter screams every two hours out of three. No, work doesn't seem to care if Porter had a rough night.

Nothing.

This is a completely excuse-free zone.

The most impressive news to date is that Porter is on the verge, the cusp, the ledge, the very cutting-moment of walking. He's been standing with assistance for about two months now. This assistance includes: daddy's fingers, mommy's fingers, Aunt Isabella's fingers, the couches, the chairs, the tables, cousins, and the standing lamp that he has three times managed to pull down on top of himself.

He's apparently a slow learner in regard to the stability of standing lamps.

What's even more impressive is his sound financial sense. Especially in these trying times of four-dollar-a-gallon gasoline, Porter has stalwartly not grown out of his six-month clothes. This has been a great help to Lil and I, as the clothes we've mooched from Eric and Amy have yet to arrive (may the gods bless you!).

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, Porter has learned to say "mama"!

Ok, that last was a joke. Almost all babies learn "dada" first and Porter, my son, is no exception. He babbles "dadadadada" quite a bit, as if to say, "Oh father, how can I ever repay your benevolence for bringing me into this world, clothing my nakedness, changing my dirtiness, and feeding my hunger."

That's quite alright son, just start sleeping through the night and we'll call it even.

Oh, and a Pulitzer prize. But no rush on that.

Six Month Report

2008-04-01T12:17:00.000-07:00

Well, we still have a Porter.

He's healthy, if not wealthy or wise.

I was assured by the nurse that these are not guarantees, even under the California State Constitution. I was quite abashed.

Porter is now 13lbs 5oz. So he hasn't doubled his birth weight.

That's not a good thing for those myth-toters at home who subscribe to a doubled birth weight as when babies sleep through the night.

I'm one of those.

It's my only hope.

Porter remains cute though, which is a good thing. It's what's saving him from an eBay listing and a highest bidder.

Totally Worth It - Part II

2008-03-20T11:13:00.000-07:00

Who knew there would be a second part to the brutally honest and possible most self-centered post based on greed AND my son?

None but that wonderful bastion of self-centered greed: the Federal Government.

And no other Federal Government but that under the most self-centered: George W. Bush.

(Yes, that's a political commentary, feel free to rant all you want.)

We recently received the notice that we are on the list of those who may or may not, depending on some non-Euclidian geometry, receive some kind of miniscule Federal aid package coming some time in the near or not-so-near future.

The bonus is that we potentially could get $300 just for having Porter.

Rock!

Totally Worth It

2008-03-03T09:23:00.000-08:00

Ok, perhaps not totally, but here's the thing with Porter: if I had a girlfriend who, after five months, was complaining about being too hot, or too cold, wanted to eat every two hours, and needed constant attention when she wasn't sleeping, she would have quickly found herself kicked to the curb.

Although, there is a tender moment of burping your special girl that brings the two of you closer . . . but I digress.

With a baby, you know what you signed up for. At least, you should have known. Either way, I have no sympathy for those who knew or those who didn't know.

But you should have sympathy for me. At least I would have demanded you have sympathy for me, regardless of whether I deserved or you would have given it, until last week.

That's when our accountant called with the tax refund numbers for this year.

Lil and I have always done reasonably well on the tax refund when we're not getting hit with capital gains on a house we probably should have held longer. That's a roll of the dice I'd like to have back, but you have to bet big to win big.

Except when you bet small and win big. Or bet medium to win semi-large to moderately small.

Again, I digress.

This year, even though Porter seemed to be heading for a burlap sack and a cinder block . . . or perhaps just up on EBay to the first bidder, his clever ploy to win our affections have come to fruition. Not only is he cooing, giggling more, and brooding less, but he's also worth quite the tidy sum according to the Federal and State governments. A tidy sum that they have to give to us.

Take that Big Government!

Screaming from the Edge

2008-02-11T12:43:00.001-08:00

Lillian has this interesting habit.

I will ask her a question, and then she will ignore me.

It's an impressive habit, since my first response is that she must not have heard me, so I ask again. She then ignores me, again. This, then, irritates me. I'm a stubborn kinna guy, and not in the habit of being ignored by someone who professes love for me on a daily basis, and to whom I respond professing the same back.

I ask a third time, but add a little iritation, and sometimes a touch of frustration, for flavoring.

So, this morning, around 2:10 in the AM, Lillian wakes me up with a scream of, "OH, MY GOD!"

So, now I'm up, looking for the team of ninjas that have broken into our house, or Keyser Soze, and reaching for my samurai sword, or the 9mm Baretta, and then remembering that I own neither of these, and would most likely harm myself in any attempt to use them against the aforementioned assailants.

Not immediately seeing anyone attacking our bed's comforter, I turn to Lil and say, "What?"

Yeppers, that's right, she does what I described five or six paragraphs above and we go through the whole thing. She's fussing in Porter's bassinet, which sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the Southern California winter air.

Unknown to me, Lillian had a procedure in which monitors for Porter's heart-rate, breathing, glucouse and cholesterol are constantly being reviewed. When any one of them drops below or above normal, she kicks into psycho-gear, and now has the power to give her husband a heart attack, stroke, and auditing from the IRS all at the same time. Add in the ability to hold your husband in suspense while a train-wreck is looming, and you've got the makings of a Chuck Heston Mini Disaster Movie.

Finally, Lil condescends to let me in on the issue, "Porter was breathing shallowly."

Now, I don't want to be an ass her by knocking my wife. So I won't.

Suffice to say, after I got my heart-rate back ti 186 BPM, took several Valium and two shots of very cheap, very toxic Tequilla, it turned out that Porter was ok, but I may not live to see his first birthday!

Spills, Chills and Thrills

2008-02-08T12:35:00.000-08:00

About two months into being parents, Lil and I came to the realization that sometimes you just gotta let the lad cry it out. That's a hard lesson to learn, but we were glad we learned it, and learned it early.

Porter does like to complain about lack of attention, which is something I can relate to. He prefers to be up, facing out to the world, and always bouncing, bouncing, bouncing. He doesn't care whose holding him either. In fact, whoever is holding him, he generally prefers to ignore.

"Yes, good work there, servent. Carry on."

Recently, I'm pretty certain Porter has realized what we're doing. He's a clever kid to begin with (of course he's clever, he's my kid, and that's only where the cleverness starts!), and I think he knows that new parents are supposed to be crazy-tired all the time, and over-concerned about every sniffle, whimper and cough. He's certainly up for fulfilling his duties, and nothing, not a swing-chair he loves to sleep in, or the soft music he likes to sleep to, or the gentle shushing of his parents will deter him.

Which basically means that Porter has been waking up, and by extension waking us up, every hour to two hours to complain about something.

Yeppers, we're on the Porter Roller Coaster of Impending Doom, and this time, there's no Indiana Jones to save our Shankara Stones!

State of the Porter

2008-01-03T14:10:00.000-08:00

Well, in case you haven't heard, it's a new year, and with that, my paternal responsibility as patriarch of my family is to provide you, faithful readers, with the State of the Porter address.

Porter is now three months and has gone from a wrinkly-little-old-man-who-sleeps-a-lot-but-is-otherwise-only-interesting-to-his-parents to actually developing something of a personality. The highlights are:

Ambidextrious - While, according to experts, it's too early to tell, Porter has not decided which thumb he prefers, left or right. He generally leans toward the left, as it has a pretentious bouquet, but is suitable for most cuisines. However, sometimes the right serves as a back-up when the left can't be found. In some cases, both hands are used to make certain neither thumb can get away from him.

We Don't Like Wet - Porter isn't certain who keeps getting his diapers wet, but when he finds them . . . well, they called down the thunder and now they've got it. Hell has no fury like my son with a wet diaper.

Temper Temper - The kid clearly has both his parents' propensity for going from 0 to homicidal in .6 seconds and the lung capacity of whale. If he starts laughing we know we've got five minutes or less before the smiles stop and the PUNY-MORTALS-YOU-DO-NOT-YET-KNOW-THE-MEANING-OF-PAIN stage.

Criss-Cross Will Make You - Olympic High Jump? NBA All Star? Professional Beach Volleyball? International Gymnastics Champion? We're not certain which route Porter will take, but suffice to say the boy loves to jump. He'll even help, and let you know when you're not doing it right. His current prefernce is to jump on someone's lap while facing away from said spotter so as to not miss a moment of the action.

Classic Toons - Two words: Bugs. Bunny. That's right, Porter is an afficionado of the Cary Grant/Humphrey Bogart/Groucho Marx successor. Personally, that waskily-wabbit still entertains most triumphantly. He's also way less evil than Ernie.

And that, my fellow Americans, is the State of the Porter entering 2008. We know there are a great many challenges to face us, but there are also a great many triumphs to be had. We must go forward, not backward. Upward, not downward. And always twirling, twirling, twirling.

Or in Porter's case, jumping, jumping, jumping.

Conan, What Is Best In Life?

2007-12-12T12:27:00.000-08:00

Lillian asked me the other day what I thought was the best part of being a parent. This is a tricky question, so I quickly ran through the list of things that had changed since I'd become a parent to figure out which was the best:

Lack of sleep
Lack of sex
Losing my hearing
Changing dirty diapers
Even fewer movie-watching excursions
Tied to the homestead
Hours of burping, without any burps
Sore back from the aforementioned attempts to burp
Expense in diapers, wipes, clothes, laundry and bathing soaps, lotions, creams, and powders

Let's face it, Porter will certainly be a really cool kid some day, and with luck, he'll mature into a wonderful human being, perhaps be a father in his own right and then win a Pulitzer soon after. But right now, he's pretty much limited to eating, sleeping and screaming.

Except when he smiles. Yeah, they're few and far-between. After all, he's a blue-stater under red-state oppression, so what's to smile about. Still, when he does smile, that's when I know what's great about being a parent.

Porter's Revenge

2007-11-14T09:39:00.001-08:00

When Lillian went into labor, Porter had not dropped. Apparently, this is an important part of the delivery, and without dropping, most doctor's think, say, and then perform a C-section. However, my wife could give rocks and mules lessons on stubborn determination, and that just wasn't going to happen.

I'm fairly certain that when it came time to be born, Porter looked at the option and decided, "Naw, not for me." His thinking was fairly logical: he was warm, well-fed, didn't have to wear diapers, and had his own, personal punching/kicking bag.

But born he was, and he has not, let us forget how angry his is with our decision.

Porter doesn't cry.

Porter screams with length, breadth and duration that Banshees have sent us letters in protest. Angry doesn't begin to describe Porter's general state of being. He burns with a fiery intensity to rival a thousand suns going super-nova. My own personal ability to go from zero to leap-across-the-table-and-sink-my-canines-into-your-jugular-to-taste-the-salty-warmth-of-your-life-blood is but a mere shadow of the emotional outrage my son can summon at will.

Originally, I thought he was angry at being wet, dirty, hungry, cold, or America's continued dependence on foriegn oil.

Now, however, I'm certain the child has determined to punish his mother and father for ripping him from his original room of comfort and ease. I've asked him, and he's admitted, though not in a fashion admissable in court, that he sleeps during the day so as to be awake when I get home from a hard day's slaving at the marketing mills, and then summons his Kung Fu Fury to hurl at mother and father all through the night.

Though bleary-eyed and mostly zombie-brained, I have to admire his determination. You should too!

Things I've Learned

2007-11-09T15:08:00.000-08:00

So, unfortunately and inevitably, I've learned a few things about being a parent.

You need to read that previous statement carefully, as it does not say I have learned anything about babies. I haven't. You want statements on babies, let me recommend Dr. Spocks Baby and Child Care. He's studies multiple babies over multiple years. That's why they put that "Dr." in front of his name.

Now, as to what I've learned. First, everyone will make jokes about sleep, or rather sleep deprevation. In some cases it's shared pain (from other parents) in other cases it's learned mocking (from those who don't have children yet). To everyone I make the same, confused face and simple respond: Sleep!?

It's quick, it's simple, it allows the "everyone" to laugh at the appropriate time and I can get back on with my life.

I've also learned that everyone thinks they're a baby expert. No, I'm not kidding here. People who have twelve babies, people who've had no babies, people who are still babies; everyone is an expert. Or at least they have some nugget of golden wisdom that they feel impelled to pass on to you, generally unsolicited. Consider the ladies at the football game Lil and I attended some time back who sniffed at Porter's lack of headwear, even though it was 85+ degrees out.

Yeah, I get it, he's little, but if the ambient temperature is closing in on triple digits, chances are being cold isn't my son's first concern.

Along that same line, the best advice has been solicited. My college buddy, Eric and his wife did copious amounts of research, reading and studying before becoming parents. They are, by no means experts, but their general outlook is one of sense and sensibility grounded with some down home wisdom. Also on the list of great advice givers when asked are my parents, Lil's parents, some members of our mutual families, and some friends.

Notice how I'm not naming and names here. I've also learned that accepting some advice over others, or flat rejecting it tends to be a lot like wearing copper armor during an electrical storm while standing on top of the highest hill and screaming, "All gods are bastards!"

I've learned that changing diapers isn't a big deal. I was honestly worried about this part. I'm not really into gross stuff on any level. I like things neat, tidy and above all clean. Yes, I'm one of those metrosexual boys who actually gets that the toilet seats works in two directions, and that dingy grey-brown is not the normal color for more tubs. Still, changing Porter, even though he baptized me on a dozen occassions, hasn't been an issue. It's been an issue when I'm tired and don't want to go through the motions, but hell, that's true of almost anything that I do . . . or rather don't do.

You know, like updating a blog.

I've learned that everyone loves Porter. I don't know if everyone loves babies, or if I'm just a proud papa, but everyone around us seems interested in our boy. Maybe it's just the wonder and awe that I could actually produce offspring, or the fascination-horror of what that offspring is/will be like. I dunno.

But my boy is currently not a ham. He prefers two states of being: sleeping and screaming.

Yes, I've learned that my boy's state of being awake is one of pure anger, angry at being wet, angry at being dirty, angry at being hungry, angry at being gassy, angry at America's ongoing dependence for foriegn oil. Angry.

But at the end of all that, I've learned unconditional love. Sure, there are times that leaving him, screaming, on a monestary's front door does have its momentary appeal, but that's all it is: momentary. The other 86,399 seconds of every day are spent in awe and love of this child.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Porter Poses for a Pic

2007-10-11T14:46:00.000-07:00

Ok, Porter didn't actually pose for these, but I like to use aliteration in my titles from time to time. Instead, consider these more slice of life.

In fact, don't consider them that, since that's what they are. So, instead, just enjoy.

This is Porter yawning, not crying. If he was crying, and I was taking a picture instead of trying to calm him down, my wife would break my picture taking fingers . . . that's all my fingers in case you were wondering. Since I like all my fingers bending in only one direction, this is just Porter having a mid-nap break.

This be what we call Porter's Pirate. Yarrr, he be lookin' fer some booby.

It's good to see that he is taking after his old man in the practice of Pastafarianism.

And this is the obligatory "awwww" picture. Porter asleep. I'm told you can see my mouth, chin and nose in here, but since I was taking the picture, I think physics is against the kinna thing.

We Don't Need No Stinkin' Pixels

2007-10-08T14:28:00.000-07:00

I’ve never been much of a picture taker.

I’m like a journal writer who starts out every three to six month pause with, “Well, a lot has happened since last I wrote . . .” Except in my case, it’s with pictures in an album, and I have to tell people, “Somewhere in here I went white-water rafting down the Snake River, and shot the Big Kahoona in only my lifevest.”

That’s all changed with the birth of Porter.

As we were leaving for the hospital, a successful trip I might remind you, we scrambled to try to find out digital camera. It’s a nice camera, a Kodak something-or-other with 5-point-something pixel bytes of mega memory.

Yeah, that’s right, I’m big into my technobable.

Long story longer, we couldn’t find the camera and assumed we had packed it. ‘Course, you’re now saying, “Well, this wouldn’t be much of a story if Rob had actually packed it.” And you’d be wrong.

It’d be a HELLUVA story, since we came back with my first born son PORTER.

Sheesh, some people.

Still, aside from the physical evidence of Porter’s birth, we didn’t really have much of a chronicle to go by. I ran down to the gift store and picked up an out-dated and very dusty disposable camera with a hand-crank and pull-start. I believe some of those pictures will turn out pretty well . . . once I re-invent the processing to print them.

Then, two days ago, Porter smiled for the first time.

Sure, it might have been gas, but even then, it was a smile. A smile as if saying, “Thank you father, for giving me life and helping to bring me into this vast and interesting world where I will live up to all your lofty expectations and exceed all your pre-determined goals set for me without thought to my own individuality or personal needs.”

Yeah, it was that good.

And the first thought in my head was, “Damn, I don’t have my camera.” Because here was a golden moment that would never come again: Porter’s first smile. It was there for a moment, a handful of seconds and then it was lost forever. Sure, there will be other smiles, his second, and his forty-eighth, and his three-hundred-millionth. But there will never be another first.

But what I also realized was that I didn’t need a camera. I didn’t need to be one of those parents who watches their children grow up through the view finder of their digital camera on the off chance that they might miss “something”, some incredible “first” in their child’s life.

Sure, it would have been nice to have captured for all time and eternity the first smile that ever crossed my son’s face, but at the same time, I have captured it. I’m thinking of it even now.

Collect Call From "Wehaddababy Eetsaboy"!

2007-09-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, September 26th, 4:53pm
Height: 20 inches
Weight: 6lbs 15ozs
APGAR: 8 at 1 minute, 9 at 5 minutes

Mother and child are doing fine.

Father is running off 36 hours of no sleep.

Disneyland a Bust

2007-09-24T09:09:00.001-07:00

Saturday it rained.

I would say that it never rains in Southern California, but given that it rained Saturday, I would be lying.

I am not above lying, but I am above telling dumb lies, as the aforementioned never raining in Southern California is.

But I can safely say that it rains so rarely here that my truck sees more filtered water bouncing off its rapidly oxidizing paint than it does the natual acid rain that falls here.

That being the case, most SoCal folk run fleeing in terror as God's punishment falls down on them. Those who don't fear God think this might be a trick of some God-Folk to get them baptized, and so they run as well.

This largely leaves Disneyland, packed to the gills on most days, sparse as a ghost town by comparison. So, we were off to Disneyland, first because it was a chance to actually enjoy the "Happiest Place on Earth" and second because walking is good for Lil and might induce labor. And I'm told that if you have a baby in Disneyland, that they pick up the tab for college education.

Gosh, isn't Disney the bestest!?

Alas, all we got for our efforts was some cardiovascular activity, mediocre food, and more entertainment then you can shake a magic wand at.

And Still No News

2007-09-19T12:25:00.001-07:00

Lil is still "long and high" or "high and long" or "long and deep". I can never remember the actual terms. Something to do with football, I think, or maybe it's baseball.

Some sport type terminology that's been plied, indescriminately by the fallacracy to keep women down.

What does that mean to you? Nothing. You're not important here.

What does that mean to me? Still nothing. What? You think because I write this blog that I'm important.

Silly mortal.

What this means to Lil and to Porter is that Porter is not ready to be born yet. Well, technically, it means that Lil's body hasn't figured out that letting go of this bundle of joy after nine and a half months might be in both their best interests. This isn't uncommon, but it does tend to complicate things, like doctor's golf times and martini lunches.

How rude.

So, the upshot of this update is that the doctor will induce Lil on October 1st. That is barring, ya know, labor. That doesn't mean we'll have a baby on October 1st, but that they'll start trying to convince Lil's body that it should let Porter out into the world to make his own way.

More to follow, as I'm sure you know.

Houston, We're Right On Schedule

2007-09-05T13:52:00.000-07:00

The baby has turned.

That's the news.

It's big news, I'm told. Very big.

Thanks for sharing with me.

Favorite Things

2007-08-06T15:39:00.000-07:00

Girls' Camp was this past week, which accounts for at least seven days of my absence.

Prior to that, I was saving Jack Bauer's muscular buttocks from terrorists and a power-mad president.

It's not easy to be me.

In the meantime, everyone keeps asking what we've gotten for the baby. I know it's not nearly enough, but here's the list:

158 blankets. I'm not exagerating that number at all. I counted them, that's what we have. If nothing else, we can pad Porter's entire bedroom with blankets and then chuck him inside with no ill effects.

400 Newborn Diapers. This, we believe, will last us between 20 and 30 days, by which time Porter will have learned to use the toilet. I don't expect him to flush though. It would be hard for him to reach without falling in.

20 Onesies. These are definately not enough onesies, especially given that none of them mention heavy metal bands Metalicca, Megadeth, AC/DC or Motorhead. Please feel free to purchase any of these you find suitable.

1 crib. It was dusty, but never used. Sometimes going to church rocks!

1 swing. I love yard-sailing.

We'll wait on the other stuff until post-baby shower, just in case someone actually decides to get us the Bugaboo Cameleon.

If you need an address on that, I'll be happy to send it via email.

Hooray for Boobies

2007-07-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

In preparation for the arrival of, alternately, our bundle of joy or our Wagnarian doom, Lil and I are attending a series of classes. These vary from impressively informational and thus useful, to a Sunday sermon from the pulpit of Holier-than-thou.

Last week we attended a breastfeeding class.

Guess which category this falls into.

Holier-than-thou breastfeeding teacher, or HBT for short, first let us watch a video not on breastfeeding, but on the delivery of a baby. It was a little more intimate than I was hoping for, but educational. Essentially, delivery is not much fun, and the gist from the HBT was that you should never, ever use any drugs of any kind at all or your baby will never be able to learn to breastfeed.

In fact, don’t even think about using drugs, local anesthetic, or an epidural, as this will cause a transference to the baby in utero, and he/she will grow up to be a crack/meth/heroine addict leaching off society and bringing down the moral values of our fine Republican country.

Hey, I just report the news.

Next HBT went into the benefits of breastfeeding - for fifteen hours. These include, but are not limited to, better nutrition, virus and disease-fighting, bonding, growth, wellness, literacy of the masses, poverty-avoidance, revolution against the bourgeoisie, reduction of racism, the question of alien life, and averting global thermo-nuclear war.

Yeppers, all that in a mother’s breast.

Is it any wonder why boys are so breast happy?

What struck Lil and I as odd was the fact that the HBT, upon her pulpit of virtue and righteousness, was preaching to the choir. We’ve already paid for the class. We’re already attending the class we paid for. We've already shown up to the class that we paid for and are attending.

We’re already onboard the Breastfeeding-Is-Good train.

Why are we stopping off in Fire and Brimestoneville?

Do we look like non-believers who require a demigogue and a ballpeen hammer to make it all stick?

Apparently, this is because breastfeeding is, unbeknownst to me, a very volatile subject, one on which the lines of battle have been drawn and you stand either with or against the cause. Whole wars have been fought between the Formula-ites and the Beastfeeders, neither winning a clear victory. In this world gone made, we do not spank the monkey, the monkey spanks us. If you’re with the cause, you need to be completely and utterly indoctrinated as to the where, whys, whatfors and whatnots of breastfeeding. This is so that, after your three hours of browbeating, you can go out into the world and pummell others with, if not your suprerior knowledge, then your superiority complex. If you’re against it, well, clearly you showed up to cause trouble and must now be pounded back in your place with histrionics and mad shrieking.

Woe be unto you who question the mastery of the HBT.

Toward the end of the class, HBT actually managed to give us some breastfeeding information apart from the propaganda machine. We had about two minutes of latch-on and feeding tips, another minute or so of Q & A, and then we were invited to wait after class to address specific questions, say about breast pumps, breast milk storage, baby-stomach capacity, concerns about illness, etc.

Call me crazy, but this late in the evening on a weekday with a pregnant wife, I just wasn't interested in much more the HBT had to say.

In fact, I was almost at the point where I wanted to go out and buy stock in a baby formula company just to be contrary. And not one of the better companies, but a shady factory that makes questionable claims and improvable statements. A company whose mailing address is a P.O. Box and whose bottom line is always about the profits in South American and African villages.

Hey, I said almost. Sheesh. I’m all for averting global thermo-nuclear war via breastfeeding our child. After all, we showed up to the class.

Expecting Parent Joke of the Day

2007-06-28T08:52:00.003-07:00

Question: How do you make God laugh?

Make a plan.

Bedroom Set?

2007-06-20T11:19:00.000-07:00

Lil called me yesterday to ask if I had ordered a bedroom set. At first I thought she meant a set of sheets for our bedroom.

This is, generally, tricky for me to answer, since I have a terrible memory. But I do tend to remember things like ordering a full set sheets from somewhere. Of course, all this is trumped by the fact that sheets were never mentioned, and so we're talking an entire bedroom set, meaning at least four peices (mattress, boxsprings, nightstand and drawers).

This is easier for me to answer, since I have champagne taste on a beer budget, and would remember spening at least four-digits (yes, that's what I would spend on a new bedroom set). I also would have remembered the beating I would have received after spending said four-figures.

The beating Lil would have given me.

Anyhow, it then occured to me that, since we have a baby on the way, perhaps some kind soul had purchased a bedroom set for Porter.

So, did anyone?

Me, As Father

2007-06-18T12:40:00.001-07:00

The concept hasn't really struck home yet.

I've had moments, certainly shots in the red of the Bull's Eye, but nothing that has impaled me with the utter realization that, within a year, I may hear:

"Daddy, I wanna learn the care and handling of a Japanese katana."

Ok, well, maybe not all those words exactly. But the gist of those words, yes. Forefront of them, the first word which not only conveys a position of responsibility, but an emotional attachment that is never broken; not by space, time, distance or death.

If you don't believe me, check out my buddy's blog entry Pre-Phather's Day Phunnies, or ask any child, male or female, what they think of their father. Hell, think of your own father and move from there. Answers will be as varied as the stars in the sky, running the range from gratuitous affection to a sort of fear and loathing I generally reserve only for Keanu Reeves.

Fathers may be distant or close or next-to-non-existant, but they have an impact.

I've seen pictures of my son, I've heard his heart beat, I've even selected a number of impressive fashion-conscious onesies for him when he arrives.

This Father's Day, though, that concept was foremost in my mind, and I'm pleased to say that while I am not 100% certain that I will be able to handle this position, I feel more confident now than I ever have in the past. While I may still have the emotional maturity of a 13-year old watching Revenge of the Nerds, that's an entire order of magnitude better than I was just five years ago.

So, Porter me-boy, bring it. Your "old man" is ready, and your mom is waiting for when I fail utterly.

Metro Fly

2007-06-13T09:31:00.000-07:00

I've tried for years to work the term "fly" into my vernacular, but it never seems to stick.

It's probably because I'm not.

However, I am metro, and working that word into daily usage didn't take much effort at all. So this weekend, while we sipped some kind of alcohol (I use "we" in the royal sense here, not the couple with one member who is pregnant) with out friends Team Cuts, and discussing things that need to be done for Porter.

One of the things is that Porter's bedroom needs to become a functioning baby bedroom. Currently, it's a functioning guest room / Rob's office. It would function better if I could do more than just play video games on Saturday while the wife sleeps, but it does that well, and we will not debate that functionality at these proceedings.

Enter my friend Tara.

Tara and I have known each other since 6th grade (her first tour, my second). That's a damn long time to know someone, let alone maintain anything passing as a friendly relationship. Tara and I get along like peas and carrots . . . post harvest. Pre-harvest you won't find any peas hanging out with the carrots. It's a bitter fued. Two houses, both alike in dignity and all that.

Anyhow, Tara has offered to assist in getting the house, specifically Porter's room and the kitchen (the kitchen needs to be painted) into a good order. I'm very excited about this, but Lil was even more excited since it meant that she didn't have to try to figure out if distressed white goes with Louis XIV.

It can, and that's all I'll say.

Basic Information

2007-06-06T11:24:00.001-07:00

So here's the low-down:

My wife and I are pregnant. She's more pregnant than I am, in that she will show, but this is definately a team effort. I don't envy the weight gain, change in eating habits, constipation and the oodles of maternity clothes that must (not need, must) be procured. On the other hand, I'm quite willing to rub feet, draw baths, clean, cook and otherwise assist in any way, shape or form as required.

We are due in late September. That means that my wife will be carrying our bundle of joy, a personal fireplace, through the heat of the summer. That's led us to install central air in our 1920 clapboard home to fend off the pounding heat. It was something we had wanted to do anyhow, but this made it slightly more than a want.

We're having a boy. I had always wanted a daughter first. For some reason, the concept of a big sister appealed to me as I was growing up. Later, the concept of a first daughter seemed a wiser choice as boys are generally dirty, messy and destructive and that's in their 40s. Further, we had a girl's name all picked out (no, I won't tell you, so please don't ask) quite early and easily, which pretty much guarenteed that we would be having a boy. God has a sense of humor.

Porter Chase Lee [last name]. That's his name. If you want to know the particulars of those name choices, send me an email and I'll relate the long, lengthy and laborious trail that my wife and I travelled to finally arrive at our son's name.

Porter likes to move. Previous to last night, only his mother had felt him moving around. Being with him 24/7 has that advantage. She would grab my hand, thrust it to her swelling tummy and we would wait for an hour or three before giving it up as a lost cause. That changed last night. I felt my son kick. He isn't a soccer player, but he is definately there, which is a great relief since there was concern Lil was just getting fat.

Not by me, mind you, just people. I was hearing things. I heard things.

But there ya go, that's the basics.

Changing of the Guard

2007-06-05T15:03:00.001-07:00

I gave some long consideration as to what to do with this blog.

This was originally a site dedicated to the trials and terrors of foster care and adoption, becoming an instant parent to a child who had more issues than National Geographic. But as you may know, this has all faded away, and we can't help but be grateful that things have worked out the way they have.

So, as of today, and in honor of mi compadre y amigo arrival on the scene(two semesters of Spanish, and I ROCK!), I have decided to turn this into a blog about my forth-coming arrival.

That's right, when you can't adopt, you just go off and make one of your own.

So, this is the official changing of the guard. The next article you read will be on my impending doom as a father, my failures as a husband and my pathetic attempts to maintain friendship in the light of my poorly timed comments and what I consider to be wit.

Enjoy!

No Call

2007-05-01T15:17:00.000-07:00

Just a quick update. We didn't receive a call from Justice on Sunday. This wasn't unexpected, except the previous Sunday we did get a call from her, and that was unexpected. When she was living with us, she called her dad every Sunday, usually several times.

We assume this means she's more than moved on.

Alternatley, it could mean that her father doesn't have the money, time or patience to allow her to call us.

So, all that leaves now is the hearing that takes place, I believe, this week.

Semi-officially, this chapter of our lives, and thus this blog, are closed.

I might change this to a blog about our baby, due in September.

Three Weeks

2007-04-23T12:25:00.000-07:00

As of this past Saturday, April 21st, Justice has been living with her father for three whole weeks.

We moved her up on March 31st, along with the dresser and desk we had bought her and her six boxes of clothes, books, toys, stuffed animals and more clothes. And then she filled two big gym bags with more clothes.

I had no idea she owned so many clothes.

The trip was uninspiring. Lil and I talked quite a bit. We explained to Justice that the court had not finalized the interim request, and that they may might make her live somewhere else until the May 5th court hearing.

We dropped off her stuff, hugged her goodbye and then we were gone.

I'd like to say that I was sad. That would be the noble, altruistic, "right" thing to say.

I can't say that.

Relief washed over me like the Red Sea washed over Pharoh's soldiers as they charged toward the "helpless" Jews. It was a deluge. A veritable flood that left me slightly euphoric and has not entirely faded altogether.

It wasn't Justice herself, but rather everything she represented. The broken system, the headaches and heartaches of trying to do something good for someone less fortunate. The painful calls, the accusations, the ride in the back of a police car, and endless, endless, endless hours spent on the phone trying to get someone, anyone to pick up and work for the betterment of a single child.

I was romantically cyncical before becoming a foster parent, believing that while there was evil in the world, it could be overcome, usually with a song and dance number. No more. Now, I know, while there is evil in the world, mostly it is because mediocre people are given responsibilities beyond their means, and then they take on an apathatic view that paralyzes them from taking any action that might be deemed apropriate.

Social Worker Dayle Kline and Social Worker Nancy Souza, and all the other mediocre and less-than-stellar individuals that we worked with were just going through the motions. I'd say phoning-it-in, but they never picked up the phone or returned a call.

So there it is. My two year oddessy into the realm of foster care, adoption and a little girl named Justice.

More Chickens, Less Counting

2007-03-20T12:30:00.000-07:00

Once again, Justice's attorney has saddled up her horse, hitched up her lance and ridden to the rescue.

I'm sure she appreciates that visual as much as I do.

The word is that Sue, the attorney, has worked with Social Worker Nancy Souza (more impressive than climbing Everest in my revised opinion) and the letter from the therapist is now received, and the paperwork is being submitted and the goal of Justice transitioning to her father's over the coming Spring Break is one step closer.

Doesn't make it a reality, and we wouldn't advise holding your breath, but there it is.

We have more chickens, but we're not going to count them. We'll just let them run, uncounted, as God intended them to be.

Counting Your Chickens

2007-03-08T08:43:00.000-08:00

Early last month, with a song in my heart, a dance in my step and visions of becoming the next Gene Kelly in my mind, I reported to you the optimistic news that Justice's new social worker, Social Worker Nancy Souza, seemed competent, capable and cogent of her responsibilities.

I have come to you today to appologize.

I was wrong.

Social Worker Nancy Souza is none of the things I had claimed.

I am shamed to show my face in public, and I'm considering a ten-yard sari and full burkha.

Update for the Week

2007-03-01T09:20:00.000-08:00

With Justice's return to us on Sunday, and her subsequent meloncholly when her father and his fiancee left, we redeployed our efforts to make certain everyone was moving forward.

I called our new social worker, Nancy Souza, to see follow up from the call previously, where we agreed she would contact me the next week. That was two weeks ago.

I haven't yet relegated Nancy to the same status as our last stumbling block, Social Worker Dayle Kline, but I'm getting closer. I left a message, which to date hasn't been returned.

The next call I received in this saga was from Lil, saying that "an assistant" to Nancy had met with Justice and told her that Nancy was no longer her social worker.

A year ago, this might have sent me into a rage to rival that of a hundred-thousand Hulks. This was just another blip, since it's happened before and I figured was likely to happen again. Probably sooner than we could place bets.

I called a supervisor who had helped out previously, and she got me in touch with Nancy's supervisor, and gave me all the information I needed. Nancy was moving positions, but because our case had been handed around like a village bicycle she would keep the case with her. That may or may not be good news.

Nancy also had, apparently, made several calls to the therapist in order to get the letter needed to help file the interim ex patre-legaleeze-thingamajig. That's a bit odd, I thought, since the therapist had been more than helpful, flexible, and had even suggested that Justice was ready for the move.

Taking Justice to the therapist Monday fell to me, so I gathered up the information needed for the letter, and discussed it.

"That's odd," the therapist said. "I haven't received any calls."

"Hmmm . . . they said she'd called a number of times and didn't get a response. Maybe she was calling the wrong number."

In truth, I'm more willing to believe that Nancy hadn't called at all, and was simply CYA-ing herself. Perhaps I'm bitter, jaded and otherwise disguntled with the system.

Or maybe I'm just used to the incompetant status quo.

Object Lesson

2007-02-08T09:06:00.000-08:00

As the warm beads of pressurized water cascaded out of the showerhead and over my sleep-deprived (Lillian is sick) body, I noticed that one of the plastic bottles of body wash was broken. The cap, actually. Clearly, it had fallen, broken, and then the perpetrator of this henious event, put it back up and hoped no one would notice that the cap was now in two peices.

My head, still befuddled by getting up at 5:15 am for the past four years, did not immediately lock onto this.

And in truth, this is hardly a matter of national security.

But (and you knew there had to be one otherwise why would I bother telling this story rather than reading my daily dose of Ziggy or Dilbert?) Justice has some problems with telling the truth, asking before using things, putting them back in the shape they were given to her, and with trying to get out of trouble in general. It wouldn't be a big deal, except she's lied, cheated and manipulated on a grand scale to make Nixon's "Checkers Speech" look immature and poorly delivered.

So Lil and I generally confront her on even the small stuff that in the past we would have just let slide.

Justice immediately denied any knowledge of the broken bottle or using it, which isn't unusual in itself. I took this at face value, asked Lil if she had broken the bottle, which she denied, and then went back to Justice. I had her sit in "time out" to think about the truth and then went about making my morning peanutbutter and toast sandwich.

While waiting for the toaster to complete its morning duties, I trundled back in to Lillian, more sleep-deprived than me, and asked her again.

"What do you mean?" she asked, and I knew that I'd put the finger on the wrong suspect.

Lillian had broken the bottle, and, being an adult and beautiful, is under no obligation to let me know. Lil also doesn't lie to me on a general basis.

I went back to Justice, told her to get off the time out chair, and then gave her the lecture (which she has been handed a couple times before) my father once gave me. It goes like this:

Justice, if you tell lies constantly, then we can't trust you. If we can't trust you, then when someone tells us that you did something, like say break a window, or light a house on fire, we can't believe you when you tell us you didn't. We need to be able to trust you, and believe you when you tell us you didn't do something. If you keep telling lies all the time, then when you really haven't done something, we'll still think you did. That's exactly what happened this morning, isn't it? Now, I'm sorry for having you sit in time out for something you didn't do. But do you see that we can't trust you now, and this is the result?

I'm not inclined to believe that Justice will actually learn from this, and turn her entire life around. She's ten, and lying is a skill that she has not only gained, but worked at. She can turn on the water-works, through herself into a full tantrum, and scream her head off to any and all who might be within the listening range of the CIA.

But maybe there's hope.

Maybe.

Now for something completely different . . .

2007-02-01T14:59:00.000-08:00

After calling and calling and calling, I finally managed to get ahold of someone.

No, I swear to you. A living, breathing adult-type person with some smattering of responsibility.

Social Worker Dayle Kline?

No, dear reader, that would be insanity in a nut box sampler from Pepperidge Farms. Instead, it was Karima Deadrick, Social Worker Dayle Kline's supervisor. She advised me, first off, that Social Worker Dayle Kline was no longer Justice's social worker. I'm not certain why, but if I had to guess it was because SHE NEVER DID HER BLOODY JOB.

I'm just spitballing though, just throwing it out there and seeing what sticks. Trial and error you might say.

Now enters Nancy Souza.

I had a delightful chat with both Nancy and her manager regarding Justice. We gabbed about the lack of healthcare for Justice, the potential of moving her to her father's more quickly, and other things that I would think a social worker should ask.

Then, today, I received a call from Susan McPhee, Justice's attorney. Lovely woman, I'm sure I've mentioned her somewhere with both praise and awe, as she just rocks as a child advocate and ACTUALLY DOES HER JOB. Susan is of the opinion that with Justice, her therapis, us, and Reggie all saying the time for moving her is now, that the time for moving her should be roughly now.

We tend to agree.

It's not that we want to kick Justice out into the cold, cruel world, but rather that the sooner she makes the transition, the sooner she'll feel like her world is completely stable and she can start making strides toward being a happy, healthy and reasonably normal 10 year-old.

Looks like the stars are all aligning and now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York . . . or new social worker.

Broken, Nothing. Demolished!

2007-01-24T08:35:00.000-08:00

Justice is dead.

Justice is sick.

Justice has run away.

Justice has broken her arm in eighteen peices, glued her head to the door, sold her soul to Satan and joined three different cults, all of which involve some form of Kool-Aid.

Any and all of these might have occured and the system, including Social Worker Dayle Kline, would not even know it. The fact that they haven't is, for the most part, just pure dumb luck on her part, and the watchfulness of a cross-bred German Shepherd and a security camera on our part. Yet we can't even get Social Worker Dayle Kline to call us back!

Yesterday, Justice asked Lillian, "Why hasn't Jonah visited me in awhile?"

For those of you not in the system, and count your lucky stars for that one, a foster child is supposed to be visited once every month to make certain he/she is well, being fed, clothed and not housed in a shed with wolves.

Yeah, I was as shocked as you are. What else are the wolves supposed to do at midnight?

"Jonah isn't your social worker anymore, Justice," Lillian replied.

"Oh."

Yeah, "oh" indeed. Social Worker Dayle Kline has had Justice's case for four freaking months and Justice has met her twice. Once because we brought Justice in over the whole loss of services back in November.

Which brings us to Part Two of this particular rant. Last week, Justice was complaining of some aches and pains and whatnot. We scheduled a doctor's appointment, fully confident that the system and Social Worker Dayle Kline had taken care of any and all issues to ensure and insure that Justice's health and well-being were first and foremost handled.

Wrong.

No, wait, that syntax and mechanics weren't strong enough. Let's try this:

WRONG!

Lillian got to the doctor's office, they swiped Justice's medical insurance card and it came back on hold. You may recall that we jumped through huge hoops and worked the phones like Republican Party incumbent pundits on a sinking platform ship. We were assured by everyone from God on down that this matter was handled and all things were well taken care of and well in hand.

WRONG!

We had to get an emergency release for Justice just to see the doctor, and while I was assured by Social Worker Dayle Kline that this matter would be handled and that she would call me back when all was well again, can you believe it?

No call back.

Feel free to insert any choice explitives, colorful metaphors or vulgarity as befits your station in life.

What this means, in addition to the lack of insurance, is that the money, which before wasn't really an issue, has now become an issue. Justice receives a stipend for clothing and food and whatnot, which is paid out in Lillian's name. It's not a lot, but it offsets the otherwise minimal impact that Justice has had on our budget.

We haven't received this since November.

So, here we are again, once more working the phones like crazed monkeys trained to punch numbers and chirp until something happens on the other end of the line.

And people wonder why there are half-a-million foster children stuck in the system?

Success

2007-01-02T09:58:00.000-08:00

I'd love to open with some quip about my trip to Minnesota the first week of December, and link you to my other blog where I'd have a hilarious account of those events.

I'd love to, but I can't.

I decided to write this blog first while the events are somewhat fresh in my head. So many other things happened, that I have too much fodder for my other site that I may not get to the Minnesota trip until later in the year, if at all.

Suffice to say that I went to Minnesota as a buisness trip to meet my new boss and new team, and while I was away, Lillian was left with Justice, who had transformed into the Uber-Demon from the Lower Levels of Hell. We can fling blame and logical discourse on Justice's behavior until the quadrapeds come home, but the facts are that Justice is hard to handle with two of us around. When our numbers are divided, Justice, like any good psychological warrior, goes in for the kill. So, while in Minnesota, I received a call each night from Lillian, frustrated, upset and at her wits end about how to deal with Justice.

I suggested a burlap sack, a couple of cement weights and a deserted pier, but with housing prices the way they are, all three items are in short supply.

By the time I flew back to town, we had decided we would drop Justice off at her father's a little early, about a week, and thus save the County and taxpayers of Riverside time, effort and funding prosecuting us on any number of charges.

We got up early, even for us, and hit the road. This strategy had two attractive elements. First, traffic would be relatively light, and second, Justice was likely to sleep. Both paid out in spades. Traffic was reasonably light, even for Southern California, and Justice slept the entire ride up. This was a vast change from our other trips with her, wherein she would whine, scream, cry, cajole, whimper, simper, and otherwise attempt to make the trip utterly miserable.

So, almost completely without mishap, we drove up to Goshen, California, in the Fresno Valley, and dropped out little bundle of joy off at her father's house. Leaving her there was akin to a drowning victim suddenly realizing that if they cut the two ton weights from their legs, the chances of survival go up by an order of magnitude to say the least.

Lillian did a backflip.

I kid you not.

Ok, I kid you a little, but that's what it felt like. The sudden lack of a ten year-old, and the responsibility of a foster child became immediately and readily apparent. We went and watched a movie, one we didn't have to worry about the content for young eyes. We ate dinner, again, without having to worry if there would be something for Justice to eat. We bought snacks, without a thought toward if we would have to share or say no, and how to deal with either. There were no social workers, no family resource investigators, no police arresting me for kidnapping, no lawyers, advocates, judges or Grim Reapers standing over us and watching every move we make, every decision we take, every time-out Justice has to sit through.

On the other side, Justice's visit was more than a success. The only phone call, as heartwrenching as it might seem, from her was the day before we picked her up. She asked if she could stay longer. If it had been in our power, we would have let her, but we'd already paid for the hotel, and with family schedules leaving and coming to our house, along with school and work, it was just impossible.

But the titular success mentioned is that Justice was so thrilled at having brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and grandparents and parents all within a one mile radius, and all heaping love and affection on her in gross-tonage amounts, that she is more than ready and willing to transition to her "real family" as she put it.

Yeah, there's a little knife twist there for Lillian and I. Something Justice may never come to understand.

On the other hand, watching my wife do backflips assuages some of that pain.

Retrospective

2006-12-07T08:20:00.000-08:00

Trial went something like this:

As usual, we arrived around 8am and staggered through the cattle-chutes with the other wood-be justice seekers to enter the courthouse. We were all thoroughly checked for weapons and whatnot, which is always a treat. Sorta like a rice-crispy, with the marshmellowy goodness or the puffed rice.

We then checked Justice into the playroom. This is a wonderful place where children are watched over, and their parents don't have to deal with the increasing boredom of said child. We then went back up to find a place to sit and wait for our case to be called, which likely wouldn't happen until after noon. Oh, we also said hello to Reggie (Justice's father) and his fiancee. They greeted us warmly, and said that they had gotten the photos we had sent. Then we found a comfy, padded bench and waited, and waited, and waited.

I felt like a French refugee from Casablanca.

Again, the efficiency of this system continues to boggle the mind.

Justice's attorney, Susan McPhee came and talked to us. We had sent her an email to work describe various headaches we've been having. She gave us many kind words, and talked about Christmas break. We were advised that a mediator had been assigned to us to help work out Justice spending part of Christmas with her father.

Then, we went and sat back down and waited, and waited, and waited.

Suddenly, Social Worker Dayle was there, and, wonder of wonders, she had Reggie's phone number. This little issue had been part of the email we sent Susan McPhee. Social Worker Dayle had been ordered to be in court the entire day. I felt a slight smile creep over my face. For the first time, Justice's social worker would have to endure the incredible pain and agonizing boredom of sitting quietly through a ten-thousand hour day in the courthouse.

We later learned that Social Worker Dayle, that bastion of efficiency, had not completed the court mandated report and recommendations for this case. Look at my face, will you? I'm shocked. Shocked I say.

A little later the court mediator came out and introduced herself. I honestly can't remember her name. Lisa, or Cheryl or Spartacus. Something with an "s" sound, I think. She took us, Reggie and his fiancee back to her office to work out the Christmas break.

It must have been the easiest mediation she had ever seen. She opened by saying she had been briefed on how mishandled this case had been and apologizing to us, setting the stage to pacify angry, upset and malcontent parents. She had no worries. We immediately discussed how to get Justice to her father's for Christmas break and how soon we could get her there, and all the other necessary arrangements. The mediator, I think I'll call her Susan, that has a kind, compassionate, empathetic sound to it, turned to her computer to type out the agreement so it could be filed with the court. Her skills were not much needed.

We also talked over Justice's particular foibles and follies. Traded phone numbers and addresses. Talked about other interesting things, and assured Reggie that Justice, while cautious, was excited to meet with him. A meeting had been scheduled with the therapist for that evening at Justice's usual therapy session.

When we broke for lunch, we gathered Justice up, and then talked to Reggie and fiancee for a moment. Justice put on her "I'm-shy" act, but kept asking us questions about her father. Our response was, "Ask him." For instance, "How old is my dad?" "I have no idea, but if you ask him, I'm sure he'll tell you." "How big are my dad's feet?" "Again, ask him. I'm sure he won't mind telling." Ad nauseum.

We eventually bribed Justice with the promise of a treat if she would "be brave" and talk to her father. She did, and they started talking back and forth. She asked questions as only Justice can ask them, a ten year-old machinegun rat-a-tat-tat barage of disjointed and, sometimes, annoying requests for information.

After lunch, we returned, checked Justice back into the child play area, and waited. About two hours later, we were called into the courtroom. As usual, we weren't asked anything, and legalese flew about so that we could only understand every third or fourth line. The Christmas break agreement was accepted. Reggie was given 12 months of services to help with reunification. A trial date for six months was set for re-evaluation. Then, the judge looked out at us: Lil, Reggie, his fiancee and me.

"The court would like to offer its deepest appreciation for your patience and understanding. We know that this case has been mishandled, and we apologize profusely for the oversights. It's a credit to all of you, the father, the attorney and the foster parents, at how well you've handled this, and shows just how much this little girl means to everyone."

Or something to that effect. Even the mediator spoke at how mature (I know, I laughed too) and understanding we had all been.

So, that's the story. We'll take Justice up to spend Christmas break with her father. We've exchanged phone numbers. Justice's lawyer, Susan, said that if things went well, Justice could be moved at almost any time we all, (foster parents, attorney and Reggie) agreed that it was time.

Monday, December 4th

2006-12-01T09:43:00.000-08:00

Social Worker Dayle Kline has not yet returned our call to get Justice's father's phone number so that we can set up some kind of casual conversation between the two. Once again, I have to resort to contacting her manager.

I'm not certain if this is a compliment to us or not. We seem to be funnelled to the worst or the most over-worked social workers. I like to think it's because we're considered so low maintainance that putting us with otherwise incompetent or overburdened individuals doesn't tax them beyond their already taxed capacity.

Or, perhaps, the Child Protective Services is just so fed up with our antics that they are punishing us this way.

It's sixes.

I'll be out Monday for the court trial. It's supposed to be a trial and an end to all this confusion, instability and pathetic attempts to advocate for a child who is otherwise powerless.

Of course, that's what we've been hearing for eight months now.

I hold little hope that this will actually give us some kind of closure, but I'll keep you posted.

My Life as a Kidnapper

2006-11-27T11:20:00.000-08:00

Delving into the dark underbelly of crime is not a path that is taken suddenly or lightly. There are always mitigating circumstances, chance encounters, and, on occasion, a 10 year-old who assist in the fall of the law-abiding citizen and the rise of a criminal mastermind.

For me, my decent was carefully, expertly and meticulously planned.

The date was Thursday, November 23rd.

Thanksgiving Day to all the suckers who hold down day jobs, pay taxes and use their turn signal when changing lanes. For me, it was an opportunity in the works. When live hands you lemons, you make gin and tonic with a twist, shoot it down, strap on your Callahan full-bore auto lock and head out looking for trouble.

It never takes long.

Even less time when there’s a girl involved.

In this case, Justice, a ten year-old with a thirty-year chip on her shoulder, began by making demands.

“Can I go play with Brianna?”

Normally, a request like this is met with an affirmative, but today is Thanksgiving. Nana and Papa are in the house, turkey is roasting, potatoes boiling, and in general, it’s a family day. Lillian, my long-time partner in crime, denied the request.

Justice, true to form, pouted.

I looked at the clock. It was after 1pm, which is our usual time of solace and serenity, in which Justice takes a nap, and the entire house heaves a sigh of relief, and the neighborhood in general is thankful for the peace and quiet.

“Time for your nap,” I responded.

Justice through a fit. Not just a little fit either, but one of her ultimate-combo, Queen-of-Hearts-Off-With-Their-Heads fits that have been notoriously chronicled on this site. Consider: yelling that she wouldn’t go to sleep; yelling that she wasn’t sleeping; yelling that she hates this world; yelling in general. These are the markers of where the conversation had devolved.

Lest you think that I was alone in my irritation, Lillian had shut Justice’s door, and in order to keep it closed, had to stand station, holding the knob, while Justice tried to pry it. This means that Lillian has lost all patience, that Justice has gone so far beyond reason that she could star in an Aronofsky film, and that nothing is going to settle. In my family, and probably in some of yours as well, a parental unit would at this point sell you to gypsies, trade you for a rabbit, or spank you.

Since Justice is a foster-child, none of these options are open.

This is when running usually helps.

As you know, I love to run, and I can do it for long stretches of time at a pace that would likely kill most ten year-olds, and, according to the Fat America reports, most twenty year-olds also.

True, Justice can yell and scream when we go for a run, but she’ll run, and she’ll get tired and then she’ll settle down, and we don’t have to resort to beating her with a pillowcase of brass doorknobs and assorted blunt instruments. Once she’s sufficiently settled, and tired, we can talk, run our cool down home, and she will generally comply with whatever rules have been established for the day.

On this day, however, Justice decided to maintain her fit status, refusing to run, refusing to even go outside, and throwing a I’ve-been-kidnapped-by-a-mean-man fit outside.

“LET GO OF ME! I DON’T WANT TO GO! LET GO! LET GO! LET GO!!”

I ran on, unperturbed, and in a few minutes, Justice did calm down, and we were able to talk. She agreed that she’d been out of hand, that she really needed to take a nap, that she was tired and then we began to make our cool down way back to the homestead.

That’s when the cop car pulled up, the cop jumped out, pointed at me and commanded, “Get down on the ground now!”

I’ve seen CSI, I’ve watched cop movies, I live in Southern California, and I know about the LAPD.

I got down. I sat in the still damp grass, worried a little about my muscle fatigue, but more about the large, strapping man in blue with the semi-automatic weapon and the right to discharge large pieces of metal into my favorite skin.

“What are you doing?”

I looked at my running shoes, running shorts, running glasses and Wild Run IV: Run Through the Detroit Zoo commemorative t-shirt.

“We’re out for a run.”

“What about the lady who called in the report that you were kidnapping this girl.”

I looked at him.

Kidnapping? That wasn’t scheduled until Tuesday.

In an impressive display of self-control, I did not say this out loud. In another two minutes, six more patrol cars, all with lights flashing, all with large, strapping men wearing similar semi-automatic looks and weapons screeched to a halt and surrounded me.

Yes, yes, I’m that dangerous looking in my running clothes.

“Do I need to lay down, or is sitting ok?”

“Just calm down, sir!”

You may recall that I attempt to not use the exclamation point inappropriately. You will also note that I used one in the above statement. This should tell you exactly the disposition of the officers of the law toward me, the rogue runner.

Rogue. I like the sound of that.

“Who is this girl?”

“What’s your name?”

“Where do you live?”

“Who shot JFK?”

“Where is the Lindberg baby?”

Somehow, they even managed to angle the sun right through my Oakley sunglasses, so that I was sweating freely, and squinting against the light. People drove by and threw tomatoes. Not the fresh kind, either, but the ones especially grown for flinging at prisoners and Keanu Reeves-type actors.

Actually, knowing how the sunglasses make me look, I perched them above my head. Again, I had no desire to be “shot while attempting to escape”, as one of the officers suggested I might do.

I’m not yet fast enough to outrun a bullet.

So here’s what happened. When Justice threw her fit outside, screaming loud enough to warrant sufficient attraction from the general populace of Mars, one lady decided this must be a kidnapping and called it in. My erratic running path, a square along city blocks which had looped us back toward the scene of the crime (which proves that cliché) had proved the truth of said concerned-citizen’s phone call, and the police had responded in force.

When all was said and done, the officers packed up, and began to pull off, out to stop other evil-doers. Justice and I were given a ride in the back of one patrol car to the house and I can tell you, for the record, they are not comfortable seats in the least. The officer told me, “When we get there, I’ll try to scare her a little into not doing this kind of thing again.”

What could I say? The police were aiding and abetting in my continued abuse, mentally and physically of this poor angel of a child who only wants love, hugs and to do whatever she wants whenever she wants without considering the consequences to herself or others.

It was a good Thanksgiving Day.

Wicked

2006-11-20T10:19:00.000-08:00

"Whoa, awesome," Justice said this morning as we drove to her daycare. "That tank is spraying that water with pressure."

I glanced through the passenger-side window to see a large construction water-tanker indeed spraying water over the dirt to keep the dust down.

I smiled.

I didn't smile because it was funny, but rather because, to Justice, the sense of wonder about the world is still reasonably fresh. Of course, Justice can find awe in a pencil.

"Awesome, this pencil is shiny!"

Everything to Justice is awesome.

Equally fortunate, very little is bogus.

It might be "not fair" or "uhhhnnn" when she doesn't like it, like . . . doing her chores. But she has yet to descend into the infernals of "bogus" descriptives.

I'm not certain if this is because Justice just hasn't seen that much of the world. Last year, either for Thanksgiving or Christmas (poor memory . . . no need to point it out) Justice nearly froze to death. She is, as she can proudly state, a California Girl. Of course, this is the same child who thinks that Europe is a city, and that France is a state.

It might be a state of mind, but I think the French would prefer their country be labeled as such. On the other hand, who really cares if we offend the French. Walt Disney World in France has enough security to occupy the country, and the next time they get out of line, it's gonna be a Small World After All when we annex France as our 51st state and ban smoking!

I'm sure they'll still sneer down at us with their uppity French accents, but it won't be nearly as cool in their silly berrets withouth a cigarette dangling from pouty lips.

But I digress.

So there is Justice, all amazed at this water-tanker pouring out water, and me smiling. Lovely morning, even with those silly Frenchies sneering at us.

Social Worker Dayle

2006-11-15T11:23:00.000-08:00

Writing is my release.

It’s my anti-drug.

Check that. It’s my drug of choice.

I can sit on a train full of disgruntled, annoyed, loud, talkative people who have nothing better to do for a full hour than bitch, moan and otherwise vent their general frustrations regarding a world that is neither fair nor friendly, and lose myself completely within the text that I am writing. I have, at times, looked up to realize that I’m now at my stop and must quickly save and shut down my laptop, shove the mass into my briefcase and shoulder the whole affair while stumbling down stairs and hoping those sliding doors won’t maim either of my writing hands.

It’s a gift.

Check that also. It’s a curse.

Any writer worth their salt, and that’s all most writers make, will tell you that writing is as much rapture as it is apocalypse. There are stories that writers want to tell, and there are stories that need to be told and sometimes, if you’re very lucky, those stories will be one in the same.

The rest of the time, what flows from brain synapse to keystrokes (though a few still use pen and paper) to electronic screen is as amazing to the writer as it is (hopefully) to the reader. Some stories sit like a Nazi-monkey in khaki and jackboots on a writer’s shoulder, beating their back with a leather riding-crop and mercilessly chirping, “Write me, write me, write me,” in their abused eardrum.

The appeal to me, and I would think for most authors, is that they are the god, the Yahweh, the Jehovah of their own little created world. If they don’t like a character, or if they particularly like him/her, they can kill them off to applause of tears. If, for instance, a social worker of particular despicable abilities refuses to return calls, any number of interesting and devilish tortures can be created for hours, days, months, years of trauma.

Such visions of nasty sugarplum-coated vengeance are currently dancing in my head.

Sherman, set the Way Back Machine for, oh, September of this year. At that time, apparently, our house needed to be re-evaluated for approval as a safe place for Justice to live. We carefully hid the high explosives and blasting caps, cleaned the rust from the punji sticks and buried all the skeletons at a remote desert location. I wasn’t present for the review, which is usually a good thing as I have a tendency to become quickly and irrevocably annoyed with any agents of The Man.

The end result was that our house was certified safe once again, and Lillian was cleared to care for Justice, but that I had failed to sign some particular line of a form, and needed to be finger-printed again. Not my fault, mind you. This was a failure of the inept and poorly trained electronic finger-printing expert who took about two hours of frustrating time to actually finger-print Lil and I. Lil had to go back in for a second grueling session.

Apparently, finger-prints change as you get older.

This was pointed out to me, in excruciating detail, by the assigned home evaluator who, quite annoyingly, refused to contact me directly, but instead spoke with Lillian. Lillian, in her kind and pleasant way, kept saying, “CALL MY HUSBAND ON HIS CELL PHONE, DAMNIT!”

Alright, Lil didn’t yell and she didn’t say “damnit” but I think you’ll agree this is far more dramatic.

When I finally did speak with the home evaluator, she was quite vehement that I go in for my finger-printing. I advised her, quite calmly (no exaggeration) that at this time my work schedule was quite hectic and I would do my best to get in as soon as was possible. When she insisted that I provide her with a “when”, I’m sure my tone became slightly harsher.

“As I already said,” I said, “I will get to it as soon as possible.”

“Well,” my evaluator nemesis replied. “If you don’t do it soon then any funding or services will be cut off.”

Yes, that’s right. Justice had been in the house for over a year, and between her original placement and this conversation, with a lack of “properly signed finger-prints” on file, our house was about to be deemed ineligible for services.

In case you’re wondering, services mean Justice’s health, dental and vision care. Justice’s therapist care. Justice’s stipend for food, clothes, school supplies and any trips to the shoe-store. That’s right, we’re making a bundle off this little girl who never gives us any problems and who never grows, wears out her old clothes, eats much more than a pittance and never, ever has been sick. I’m surprised more people don’t foster simply based on how easy it is to work within the system and the large piles of cash they deliver you.

My response was simple and to the point:

“You do not need to threaten us,” I replied.

“Sir,” whenever someone calls me “sir” I know I’ve hit a mark, “I’m not threatening.”

“Ma’am,” I like to be condescending like that, “You just suggested that if we don’t do what you want us to do that you will punish us by removing a foster-child’s services. As I stated, I will get to the finger-printing as soon as I can, but right now is difficult.”

I then hung-up.

Oh, but the fun doesn’t stop there. About a month later we received two notices that Justice’s stipends and healthcare had been cut. True, I had not been finger-printed just yet, but I had made the appointment that week. Immediately, I was on the phone to Justice’s attorney, Sue, who told me that I needed to call the social worker first, but that if I didn’t get an immediate response to call her office back. I called the man, who I thought, was Justice’s social worker, Jonah.

“Oh no, Mister McCandless,” he said in his amazing amorphous African accent, “I am no longer the primary social worker for Justice. But I will call the new social worker and let her know. Here is her number.”

I waited one day, did no receive a return call, and began calling the new Social Worker Dayle. Three days later, I still had no return call. I called Justice’s lawyer again. In between Sue calling me back, I went and got my finger-prints done. While driving home, and I kid you not, while in my truck driving back to my house from taking half the day off to go get finger-printed, Lil called:

“Did you get a message from the social worker?”

“No.”

“She left a message on my phone saying they’re taking Justice out of the house on Thursday because you refused to get finger-printed.”

Metaphorically, I hit the roof. Hitting the roof literally hurts your head, hands, or whatever appendage you decided was most convenient the moment before you remember that it hurts. I don't mind anyone saying I'm annoying, rude, uncultured, self-important or self-centered egomanical letcher, but lies are something I pride myself on when I tell them. This was not one I told.

I called Social Worker Dayle, left my fifth unreturned message, and then was on the phone to Sue, the lawyer, for the second time that day.

Sue answered the phone.

Sue hit the roof.

I cannot say if it was literal or metaphorical.

I filled her in on the entire story, she then contacted Social Worker Dayle, but also received a voice mail message and then called Social Worker Dayle’s supervisor, Cathy, who had just taken over the department and had worked with Sue in the past.

There are times when utter ineptness is met with utter ability and is crushed like pepper in a mill and sprinkled on a nice salad to be chewed thoughtfully, thoroughly and then passed the bowels.

This was one of those times. Supervisor Cathy made certain that Justice’s healthcare status was reinstated, she was ordered to remain in our care, and Social Worker Dayle was ordered to contact us and give us a status report. For the moment I was sated by the exquisite taste of a successful day spent working the phones.

However, that victory was short-lived. I kept calling both Social Worker Dayle and her Supervisor Cathy. Cathy and I now have a witty repartee going, but until today I had not heard from Social Worker Dayle. This is a problem because Justice is court ordered to have a meeting with her father supervised by Justice’s therapist and an evaluation report is court ordered to be sent in prior to the December 4th trial.

Without the meeting, the therapists evaluation, and the court reading that evaluation, it's entirely possible that the trial will have to be "continued" until the following month.

Today, Wednesday, Social Worker Dayle left me a voice mail stating that she and Supervisor Cathy would like us to come in “with the child” (seriously, that’s her term, she never once said “Justice” . . . perhaps the word sticks in her throat and chokes her like a chicken-bone . . . a boy can dream) “Thursday before 4pm.” She said Thursday as if it was a week or so off and we had plenty of time to make preparations and rearrange our work schedules and lives to make this impromptu meeting, never minding such inconvenient and bothersome facts that tomorrow is Thursday.

Lovely.

I called back immediately, since I'm sure Social Worker Dayle was packing up for the day, not to be heard from or reachable by any human, alien, or telepathic means. We went through the same courtesies that a mongoose and a cobra go through upon initial introduction (by the way, I'm the mongoose). I then cut to the chase.

"We will try to be there, but this is incredibly short notice," I began going straight for her throat, and latching teeth near her spine, loathing the taste of snakey-nastiness.

"Yessss," she hissed back, "But my sssssupervisor issss going out of town sssssoon."

"We'll try," I said, trying to get a better grip on her scales with my razor-sharp teeth. "Can I ask if the father has been contacted for the visit?"

"No, not yet," she lashed with her tail trying to dislodge me.

"When will that happen?"

"Sssssssss . . ." she replied.

In my mind, I broke her back at that point and she writhed on the dirty ground of an India village garden. It's not true, of course, but this Riki-tiki-tavi fantasy is nicely gorey and has an upbeat ending, in complete contradiction to the real world.

We'll have to meet Thursday, but my teeth will be cleaned and my mongoose-ian claws will be at the ready.

Bitter Grapes

2006-10-23T09:06:00.000-07:00

This weekend, Justice sat down to write her father a letter.

At this point, unless you want to wait three years, I wouldn't suggest commissioning her to write any marketing or blog copy for you. It's not that it was bad, it's just that her typing skills amount to the hunting and pecking of a blind and beakless woodpecker who is also dead.

She wrote a grand total of fifteen lines and it took her the better part of three hours. Worse, I thought kids today were all internet-computer-VCR-DVD-TiVo-savvy giants who kicked copies of Unix in my generation's face every time we go to the beach. Justice wanted to move the body of the text down, and so she kept deleting it and then hitting enter and re-typing.

The upside of this process was that it took her three hours to type it, which left Lil and I in the enviable position of watching Thank You for Smoking (a cunning movie that you should run right out now and see). The downside was that she kept yelling frustrastions at us:

"Where's the shift . . . oh, nevermind!"
"I can't find the key with the two dots on it!"
"How do I put the date in?"
"How do you spell "abandoned"?"

Good times, let me assure you.

We did not, of course, leave her to suffer in misery and defeat through these frustrations. Lil's computer cost quite a bit, and a ten year-old can do significant damage, even if they don't know what they're doing. Instead, we helped her out, talked about the "home row" for which she became eternally and utterly lost, and then told her to just type out the words she had written down and we would fix it later.

But as I read through her letter, which ammounted to Justice's resume to date:

I have brown eyes. I have big hands and big feet. I'm in the fourth grade.

I was struck my her salutation: Dead Daddy.

I have often expressed how children do not understand the sweeping effort that goes into their creation, delivery and upbringing. The clear amount of frustration and self-sacrifice that every child (should) takes for granted. The mind of the child is not geared toward this kind of understanding that will later, if the parental-unit is fortunate, occur to them when they go to college or move out for the first time.

While not joyous, it is understandable.

A child's mind is geared toward playing, eating and playing.

They don't consider bills, mortgages, private schools, tutors, after school programs, etc.

And yet, I have to say, that there are times when the parents' grievances are supremely legitimate, righteous and wholly correct. The term "daddy" applied to a man that Justice, for all intents and purposes has never met, truly did strike me right to the core like a Brunnhilde's spear. But Aesop's bitter grapes only lingered for a moment. There have been many, many wonderful moments of having Justice as a part of our house and our lives. Tears, frustrations, anger a-plenty, sure. But seeing her grow up, and learn and experience has been worthwhile as well.

So while Justice's preconception of her father, her daddy, is probably all light and happiness, the reality will likely deminish that greatly. Still, having met the man, I can tell that he, like me, knows what it is to be a father, to be a daddy. He just gets the title.

Heinous, Heinous, Heinous

2006-10-19T09:05:00.000-07:00

Naively, yesterday, in addition to dressing in my finest black suit, tan shirt, and tan and red tie, I also took along blue jeans and my favorite sneakers. Lillian looked at me with the same look she reserves for the insane and those who kick small puppies on their way to work:

“What are you doing?”

“If we get done early, maybe we can go to Disneyland.”

She laughed. It’s a laugh that has caused grown trolls to breakdown in sobs and admit that they miss their mothers loving embrace.

Cave-trolls.

Not those sissy Mountain-trolls.

Thus began, at 7:30 am a day that would not end until roughly 7:30 pm when we would wearily wend our way back to the homestead, exhausted beyond most mortal’s capacity.

I understand that our court systems are overloaded beyond almost any conceivable measure. By most reports, even after Jesus the Christ has made his triumphant Second Coming, and sent his flocks to Heaven and the evil-doers to Hell, the courts will still be running at full capacity for an additional fifteen years.

What I don’t understand is why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why we have to be present and accounted for beginning at 8:00 am if we aren’t even going to be called into the court room for its five minutes of quiet explanation until 4:30 pm when even the bailiffs are looking at us with a, “You fools, why are you still here?” look.

It might also be the “Kick Me, I’m Irish” signs that I put on one bailiff’s back.

Well, she was Irish.

Note to the Wise: Bailiffs do not enjoy high school-level pranks and are armed with authority to shoot out your kneecaps.

Around 3:00, Justice’s attorney came out and saw us. She was apparently called to assist with three young lads who had taken to riding the elevators and singing “Ring-Around the Rosies” with some of the court officials and a couple of convicts.

Hey, they were minor felons and no one was permanently injured in the ensuing shoot out. Mostly flesh wounds.

When the attorney saw us, she told us to wait (yeah, I thought that was funny too) and when she had finished, she took us into a cubby with semi-privacy and then proceeded to drop a bomb on us:

“His (the biological father’s) attorney is offering a settlement.”

No, seriously, that’s what she said. My first thought was, we get money out of this? That’s odd. How much?

“They’re offering legal guardianship where the father will retain rights.”

What’s this?

As you know, Lillian and I were only prepared for two realistic outcomes: custody is given immediately to Justice’s father or custody is transitioned in a few months to Justice’s father. We hadn’t considered that there would be a third option.

Then the attorney dropped another bomb:

“Or, I can keep fighting for adoption, which is what I want, and what I think we should do.”

What what what what what what?

It boiled down to this: the attorney did not know where bio-dad (as she calls him) has been, where he is now, what he’s doing or who he’s doing it with. As far as she was concerned, almost everyone involved in these kinds of cases from a biological side are playing an angle and rotten to the core. She’s a child advocate, and I’m certain she sees more retched hives of scum and villainy than Luke and Obi-wan did at Mos Eisley space port. So she advocates in the best interest of the child.

What a country!

But this did take us by storm. Shock and awe were mostly what we felt. We now know what most of China felt when Genghis Khan started shopping for "a summer cottage near the coast, something with a view” . . . of the rest of China.

So, the options were we can pursue adoption, we can settle, or we can fold, take our ball and go home.

I voted take our ball, because if you don’t, then someone is going to pick it up and ignore all the writing that stipulates your name, defunct previous address and an old phone number you thought would never change but did.

But in the matter of Justice, we decided this is an all or nothing kind of deal. Justice needs stability and everyone, everyone, everyone needs closure. No half-measures. We’ve seen what that did for Iraq.

The attorney was in agreement, and so we proceeded and lost. We didn’t think we would win, but there it is. A visit was granted to the father with a trial (yes an honest to God trial) set for December 4th. Paternity was established for the father, which was never much in doubt. You look at his eyes and you can see Justice staring back.

Immediately afterward, though, Justice’s attorney asked us if we wanted to talk to the father and his fiancée. We, of course, wanted to, as this would give a HUGE clue why he’s doing what he’s doing. Let me just say, without many details, that it was probably the most positive thing to come out this hearing. Even Justice’s attorney, as we were walking away, said, “Ok, I feel better about him.”

So did we.

Photo Finish

2006-10-17T10:22:00.000-07:00

We received a note from Justice's teacher yesterday as part of her academic reporting for the first part of this year. Apparently she's not failing reading or reading comprehension but rather social studies.

Social studies?

Yeah, social studies.

The written reason was that Justice is not paying attention to directions. No big shock there. Once she thinks she doesn't like you, or what you're saying, she has an amazing capacity to shut down all conscious functions completely.

Lil has a parent-teacher conference with Mrs. Ann-Miller for Thursday. That should prove interesting.

In other news, the next court hearing is tomorrow. I will be in attendance. We don't know yet if Lil will be attending as well. The news reporters should have our interviews up on all the major networks and papers, but in case you don't get them, stay tuned and I'll report out on Thursday.

Or Not . . . Again

2006-10-12T08:56:00.000-07:00

Justice had a church acitivity for the young girls.

She loves these activities because she gets to play with friends from church and one of her best friends (BFF according to her) Genna. Given the previous issues regarding her reading and schoolwork, we, as responsible type adults hold to the maxim that we work before we play.

You might recall that fable of the grasshopper and the ant. The grasshopper takes his leisure all summer long, mocking the ant for working. When winter comes the stupid ant dies of exhaustion and the grasshopper moves in and steals all the ant's hard work storing food and building a cottage with indoor plumbing and a La-Z-Boy recliner.

But the grasshopper had to have the common sense to know that the ant was going to die.

That's the lesson here.

Similarly, I'm rather Lazy by nature. Being so B-personality inclined, I tend to like to have all my work done so that I can sit around, surfing the net, and catching up with old friends via email. It works rather nicely.

The fundamental here, just as it was with the grasshopper, is that I had to be prepared so that I could be lazy.

Justice doesn't seem to grasp this concept. Yesterday, she refused to do her homework (not a new concept) but when she was confronted about it at the daycare (where we've taken special pains to get her into the tutoring program) she pulled one of her talk-back-attitude moments with the tutor. The tutor promptly called Lillian, and Lilliand promptly cancelled the activity for Justice.

Tears erupted and then Justice went immediately into the Kubler-Ross model, which means that she equates the loss of her activity with the loss of a loved one.

Children are fascinating, aren't they?

Justice like to linger in the Anger Stage for as long as possible, which generally means she digs herself in deeper. We've learned, for the most part, to just ignore her rants and raves until she's calmed down and entered the Acceptance Stage. It's just easier all around to let he go wild for a bit, and then place her in time out for her tantrums.

So that was what happened yesterday.

Being a parent is so much fun.

. . . Or Not

2006-10-06T11:05:00.000-07:00

Imagine my surprise . . . no, that's not just a clever turn of phrase, I actually want you to imagine it . . . as I drive up to my house last night from the train station to see my wife standing on the front porch.

I quickly did a self-assessment, found that I had not recently done anything that would have put me in the proverbial or literal dog-house, and so I sauntered up to the steps.

"Hi," I said, cheerfully.

"Ok, so Justice . . . " and that's how the story began.

Justice does not like to read. I mean, the girl really, really, with a cherry on top, does not like to read. She'll go into caterwauls the likes of which most animals find too high pitched to stand, lasting far, far longer than it would have actually taken for her to read the book, assess the character flaws, and devise a potential solution.

Yeah, something like that.

But, to our credit, I like to think, she came a long way last school year, and went from Basic, essentially a C-average for you old-skoolers, to . . . whatever is just above that. She certainly wasn't Advanced, but that's ok. She loves math, and so I'm alright with her not being steller in all subjects.

I was horrible at math.

Still, it is necessary, in this world, to be able to read at least on a 4th grade level.

Which is what grade Justice is in.

So there I was, reading over Justice's progress report, and seeing that she was getting a Below Basic in reading. Not quite a failing grade, but on the ranks of a D.

Justice claimed that she missed three questions out of ten on some test, but further discovery showed that the progress report was dated 10/3, as in October 3rd, so we know that she has no clue what she's babbling about in this case. The note scrawled on the bottom of the page like some dying man's last attempt to point out clues toward his murderer read:

Justice appears distracted like her mind is on something else.

To which my first, literal response was, "Duh."

So now Lil and I need to get in touch with the teacher, find out what we can do, and try to implement something.

In the meantime, October 18th, the latest court date, hangs over our heads and casts a shadow on everything we do. We have no idea if we need to prepare for the short term outcome (Justice is taken away) or the mid-term outcome (Justice is taken away, but in a couple of months) or a longer term (Justice stays through the school year). It's hard to want to do something long-term, when at any moment the sword is gonna fall.

Cry Me a River

2006-10-05T15:42:00.000-07:00

Justice is upset this week.

She's been upset since Monday, or thereabouts.

September 27th is our (Lil and I) wedding anniversary, but due to mitigating circumstances, and number of prescheduled and promised events, and some whatnot thrown in for spice, we opted out of celebrating it. We did exchange gifts.

I got a wok.

Lil got Pride and Prejudice (with Colin Firth, that she loves) Dirty Dancing (with Patrick Swayze, that she doesn't love).

Remember, nobody puts Baby in a corner!

Anyways, we opted out of actually doing anything until this weekend, when we head out of town, and Justice can't come.

She's quite put out by this, and stated, unequivocally, that we never take her anywhere.

Nevermind that fact that when she's not at school she must be watched by one of us or an approved Lifescanned individual. We can't even leave the state with her without a court order.

I'm not making that up.

Last week, alone, we went up to Oak Glen where they are famous for their apples, apple cider, apple dumplings, apple wars, and the dreaded Apple Monster of Doom.

That part I'm making up.

Anyhow, what's great about this latest fit of hers is that it has taken the form of minor pouting, but with general acceptance and very little in behavior issues.

Perhaps she's growing up too!

You May All Stop Holding Your Breath

2006-09-20T11:28:00.000-07:00

This is a test of the child care hearing system. This is only a test. If this had been an actual hearing

THERE WOULD HAVE BEEN A FREAKING DECISION MADE!

Yeah, that's right, once again the entire audience watching could have said the outcome along with the cast and crew on what has ceased to be a legitimate discourse and exercise in child welfare and has proved why the system is so bogged down and belabored with incompetence.

Ok, ok, that's not fair.

But frustration levels being what they are, it would certainly help if that were actually the case.

Instead, the paternity test wasn't back yet. Shocker, since we only did on the 13th of last week. Apparently, the attorneys were under the impression that DNA matching tests worked in the same manner as french fryers at McDonalds. Boy were their faces red.

Also, the psych-evaluation for Justice hadn't been received. Not certain who dropped the ball on that one, since all reports would go to the Department of Child Welfare anyhow . . . oh, wait, I know who dropped that ball!

Now my face is red.

So, my loyal readers, it is with stead-fast aplomb that we march on to the next hearing date of October 18th.

Meanwhile, Justice is being amazingly good . . . because she wants to count her money. I'm not kidding here. The girl wants to buy an iPod, though I'm uncertain why since we wouldn't let her take it to school or almost anywhere else with her.

Maybe, as Don Henley said, "All she wants to do is / All she wants to do is dance, dance, dance."

Perhaps Don Henley is the true prophet of our age and George Michaels was just a false figure-head? Still, "You gotta have faith-a-faith-a-faith, baby," has a definate ring of honest revelation to it, especially in this case.

Wednesday is Paternity Test Day

2006-09-12T16:17:00.000-07:00

No, I won't be staying home to watch any of the daytime drama on television revolving around positive or negative paternity tests.

Mostly because we don't get television.

Also because I hate daytime drama.

Actually, I hate drama of almost any variety.

Nopers, tomorrow I will take Justice in for her paternity test. We have very little doubt that it will prove Reggie Diggs is her father. This will, of course, help strengthen his case for his rights to his own daughter. In some ways, this is exciting, especially for Justice. After all, how many people can say, beyond the doubt of a DNA test that they know their dad is their biological father?

Second Star on the Left

2006-09-05T15:00:00.000-07:00

As a child, I remember with extreme glee each and every time my parents took us to the infamous Chuck E. Cheese pizzaria and entertainment emporium. Not only did I get to eat nature's goodness in pie form, but there were games.

Games, I tell you, games!

Star Wars, Tron, PacMan, Mrs. PacMan, Dragon's Lair, and something to do with a mallet and rodents who pop their heads out of the ground.

It was my Graceland.

Now, some two decades later, I walked into the local Chuck E. Cheese, took one look around and thought, "What a lot of noise."

Justice will be going from nine years old (single digits) to ten years (the fabled double-digits). It's a mark of her maturity that she picked five different places that she wanted to go on her birthday, and could only whittle her guest list down from 112 to 110.

With coaxing (i.e. saying no) we managed to persuade her (told her) that less, in some cases, is actually more (we threatened to cancel the birthday party, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas until she turns 25).

She was remarkably amiable to our suggestions.

So, come the weekend, we will trek for four hours to this bastion of childhood glory to behold the electronic world of games and excitement punctuated by half-cooked, half-edible pizza and caffiene on tap.

Oh, the Humanity!

2006-08-17T10:27:00.000-07:00

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 . . .

2006-08-16T14:35:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-08-15T09:54:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-09T09:24:00.000-07:00

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?

Awards!

2006-07-28T09:03:00.000-07:00

Justice received some kind of church award Wednesday night. I can't honestly recall what the name was, but it sounded damned impressive. Some kind of medal or acheivement plaque or some other cherishable.

The 16th is still looming large, so mark your calendars!

Who Ya Gonna Call?

2006-07-20T09:31:00.000-07:00

Apparently, if you're Justice, not Ghostbusters.

Two nights ago, as she gave her evening prayers before crawling into bed, she uttered this request of the Almighty:

"And please don't let me dream about Ghostbusters, or thing about the movie Ghostbusters."

Yeah, it's that serious.

So, Sherman, set the way-back machine to a week ago.

On a recent trip to Borders, yes, the book store, we managed to pick up zero books, but three DVDs, one for each of us. Now, pay attention; Justice picket out The Nightmare Before Christmas, I picked out Ghostbusters and I have no idea what Lil picked out. That part isn't important to our story today, but I'm certain it was a classic peice of movie entertainment.

We happy few trundled home with our treasure and plunked down in front of the tube for some family viewing pleasure.

First up, The Nightmare Before Christmas, Tim Burton's dream (opium, mescaline?) inspired poetry vision of monsters, ghouls, skeletons and ghosts taking over Christmas. This leads to much scary mayhem, and the potential demise of the Jolly Old Elf himself, Sandy Claws at the hands of one of the more gruesome baddies of the children's world: Oogie Boogie.

Alright, so no worries there.

Here's where the problem comes in. As young Dan Aykroyd, Bill Murray, Sigourney Weaver, Harold Raimis and Rick Moranis turn in their star-rocketing performances in the 1984 released Ghostbusters Justice became more and more concerned. Images of the "Slimer" and other ghostly apparitions, culminate in the most horrible viewing experience ever.

That's right.

It's the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

Now consider, this movie released in the summer of 1984, as I was 10 going on 11. I'm fairly certain that both my brother, who would have been 9 and sister, who was 7 both watched the movie too. I think I watched it a dozen times in theaters and countless times on video. I could sing the entire Ghostbusters theme song by Ray Parker Jr. because it was blaring out of my Ghostbusters radio ontop of my Ghostbusters radio stand.

Yeah, it was that big.

Ok, fine, I didn't have a Ghostbusters radio.

But if I'd been rich, I would have, damnit!

The point though, is that Justice, who will be turning 10 this September, was so scared out of her gord by the images of this far-fetched and far-flung movie, that she wouldn't go to sleep with the light on, the door cracked and Lil and I sitting right outside wearing our proton packs.

I thought children of this generation were more callous then we innocents of the early 80s?

Round Five - DING!

2006-07-07T15:12:00.000-07:00

Children, the word for today is: continuance.

This is a legal term that temporarily holds you, your foster daughter, her biological father and all the social workers on the edge of your seat with worry and fear.

It's sort of like flying, except without the seatbelts, airmasks or a plane.

You're just waiting to hit the ground, and hoping you'll miss.

Next trial date is August 16th.

Court is Now in Session

2006-07-06T08:24:00.000-07:00

The petition for custody of Justice will be determined by the court today. As mentioned, Lil and I are torn between two poles of where we want the decision to fall. I find myself more and more uncomfortable as time passes and I haven't heard anything. It's only 8:20 right now, and they likely won't decide the case before noon, but still, the lack of information at this point, which started as only annoying, is rapidly progressing into disturbing and annoying realms.

We will, of course, post the outcome as soon as possible.

All prayer lines are now open.

Yesterday's Scrum

2006-06-27T08:34:00.000-07:00

Scrum: (skr-um) n.:

A. A play in Rugby in which the two sets of forwards mass together around the ball and, with their heads down, struggle to gain possession of the ball.

B. A disordered or confused situation involving a number of people.

Yesterday I received something of a panicked called from our new social worker, Jonah. Yeppers, just like the prophet who was swallowed by a minnow or sardine or something! Now, panicked for Jonah, who has a heavy African (I’m not certain what country) accent goes something like this:

Jonah (deep, resonant, paced voice): I am very sorry to be troubling you like this Mr. McCandless.
Me: That’s alright. What can I do for you?
[pause]
Jonah: Well, you see, I’m in something of a predicament and I’m hoping you can help.
Me: Okey dokey, what can I do?
Jonah: Well, you see, the mother of Justice called and is now here and wants to see her.
Me: Alright.
[longer pause]
Me: What can I do for you?
Jonah: Well, you see, I need to know where Justice is right now.
Me: She’s at school.
Jonah: What time will she be getting home?
Me: I think she’s off school around 3, and my wife picks her up some time after that.
Jonah: Ahh, yes. Very good.
[even longer pause]
Me: What can I do for you?
Jonah: Well, you see, the mother of Justice called and is now here and wants to see her.
[still longer pause]
Me: Alright. What can I do for you?

It’s not that Jonah is dense. At least, I don’t think he’s dense. It’s hard to say with the Department of Child Support Services. Our last social worker was an interesting piece of work. I’m sure her heart was in the right place, at least I hope it is and is now causing her to choke slowly and painfully to death. I’m sure that he’s read the file and I’m sure that our last social worker noted that we were “difficult” and that I, in particular, was “inflammatory” and “angry with such intensity that it would cool the fire of a thousand suns.”

I might be exaggerating a little.

But not Jonah. He’s a very calm, quick to respond, and clearly dedicated gentleman. He also makes Arnold Schwarzenegger look small and powerless by comparison. Not the current version of the Govenator either, but the early, young, vibrant Arnold that played in Conan the Barbarian:

Mongolian Type Warlord: Jonah, what is best in life?
Jonah: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you and hear the lamentations of their women.

So I’m pretty certain that Jonah doesn’t often worry about Thulsa Doom-type foster parents aggravating him.

The doubled-edged broadsword he carries on his back also seemed to make that rather clear.

No, I think that Jonah just likes to move at a particular pace all his own, and let those he’s speaking to feel smarter than him by arriving at the conclusion that he is patiently driving towards.

So, Justice’s mother, Carmen, had come into town from Las Vegas for her monthly visit; the same monthly visit that she hasn’t been to since . . . well, since before Lil and I took Justice into our home back in September. Carmen has had her rights to Justice’s three little brothers severed by the state so that adoption can move forward under Rosaleen. But since Justice’s biological father (not the boys’ father), Reggie has shown up, the case has been broken into two until Reggie’s petition for custody of Justice can be determined.

The next court date is set for July 6th.

This means that Carmen still has the right to request to see her daughter.

That’s not something we want to deny her for all manner of reasons, but for the most important reason of all, Justice. Jonah patiently explained to me that this is likely the last time that Justice will be able to see her mother for many years. The next court date should determine custody of Justice and the next steps for her. That will either be adoption by us, or placement with her biological father.

So we madly dashed, scummed, juked, jivved and made all the arrangements yesterday to make certain that Carmen, who in my estimation hasn’t done a whole helluva lot that’s in the best interests of Justice, could see her daughter one more time; promise that she was doing everything necessary to get Justice back one more time, and generally break a little girl’s heart one more time.

What Justice Likes

2006-06-26T10:57:00.000-07:00

Lillian told me this morning that she’s had a conversation with Justice that went like this:

Lil: You should talk to Rob about the miscommunication that happened yesterday.
Justice: Ok, but I really don’t want to.
Lil: Why’s that.
Justice: I don’t want to tell you because Rob will get mad.

[insert much haggling and discussion over why talking things out is more important than keeping them secret and allowing them to fester until some one blows their stack and drives a Chevy through the front door, killing the family goldfish]

Justice: I like you better when I’m in trouble with Rob.
Lil [ponders this for a moment]: Justice, do you like Rob better when you’re in trouble with me?
Justice: Yes.
Lil: Imagine that.

Yeppers, that’s our little Justice. She’s a wiz-bang psycho-analyst who has figured out that when you get in trouble with someone, you tend to not be all that favorably pleased with them.

Especially when they can send you to time out.

Must . . . Not . . . Laugh . . .

2006-06-22T10:29:00.000-07:00

But I'm failing miserably.

So Justice is dealing with the fact that she may have a father she's never met before pretty well these last couple of days. She's actually said she would like to meet him, and that's a big step. But the best part is this:

At her day care, she told Ms. Sonja, the supervisor, "My dad is black!"

She said it as if it was some huge revelation, like, "These are some good cheese-fries!" or "You just missed Jesus Christ!"

And like the dentist on Seinfeld who apparently became Jewish for the jokes, Justice has taken the revelation that she's Black to such heart that she is now adopting lingo and mannerisms consistent with some impressive stereotypes.

For example, the other day when I asked Justice if she'd done her homework, she turned to me, put her hands on her hips, cocked her head to one side and said, "Nuh-uh, white-boy! You did not just ax me dat. It's not 'nuff dat I'm black and being raised by Da' Man, now you gots ta go ax me dat? What-ev-ah!"

She also snapped her fingers in Z-formation.

It may have been the Around-The-World-And-Back-Snap, but I'm not gay, so I don't really know.

I figured why not jump on the stereotyping bandwagon with Justice and see where the ride carries us. You mileage may vary.

Not the People's Court

2006-06-20T11:48:00.000-07:00

With Justice, I've now been to what is called "Family Court" three times. Lil has been twice. Justice has been about five-thousand times.

At least, that's judging by the hash-marks she keeps on her bedroom wall under a sign that reads, "Number of Times I've Been to Court".

I could easily be exagerating, as Justice's adeptness with Roman numerals is questionable.

Yesterday, though, we added another hash mark to Justice's board, and as always, it's a stressful time. She feigned apathy about it, but her outbursts for the day previous and the rest of the day were as telling as a neon "kick me, I'm in foster care" sign. As I told her, "I was scared. There were lawyers there and a judge saying a lot of things that I didn't understand. There were baliff's there who looked nothing like Richard Moll, and seemed impressively capable of using the weapons at their sides, and then there was a judge who appeared to have the capacity to eat radioactive waste as a sampler plate."

This particular court date had the wonderfully added stress of the fact that Justice's potential biological father was present with his family. I say potential because paternity has not been established yet. However, among a myriad of other logical evidence, he was paying child support for Justice. Granted, Justice doesn't even know the man, and up until last year, had considered herself "white" with a "good tan".

Yeah, George Hamilton wishes he could get that good of a tan.

Convincing Justice that she is actually half black, and it shows, has been something of an ongoing chore, but one that we've readily pursued. She cannot pass for anything other than black and really shouldn't have or want to. Since almost everyone Justice has ever known of as family has been white, the trick has been to give her roll models that actually look like her. And let me tell you, if you measure racial beauty by this child, then racism would be a thing of the past. The mix of white, black and hispanic has yeilded a very smart, very cunning and very beautiful child.

The best of all things from all races is proof that God loves wonderous variety.

Still, at the end of the day, she's 9 years-old, and she doesn't even remotely understand what's going on with her world. I'm 32 and there are whole stretches that I don't understand. It's asking a lot to grasp that the man you knew and have been calling "dad" isn't, and a total stranger is who doesn't even remotely fit your world view of "dad" is. It's asking even more for her to meet and accept this man, especially when she has found relative peace and stability with perfect strangers. She, wisely or not, refused to meet him, and at this point, is under no obligation to do so.

If paternity is established, that will change.

She has a very real and not unreasonable fear that she may have to pull up stakes and go live with this entirely new family.

This is also the same fear that Lil and I have.

Fear, because as much as Justice has stressed, fought, annoyed and tormented us, she's also taught us how to be patient, kind, giving and grasp that the fundamental job of a parent, beyond loving and caring for a child, is to pass on knowledge and experience, to help them over the big and little bumps of life, to let them burn themselves on the stovetops of life, but not too badly and always give them hugs and kisses until the tears are gone and the smiles return.

This is also the same hope that Lil and I have.

Hope because Justice's father has stepped up to the plate and wants to take ownership for his actions. Because he came calling to the court when he finally got the news and brought a good portion of his family with him, mother, brother, fiancee yesterday. And also because as much as Justice has taught us, every man and woman, if found capable, should be given the opportunity to raise and share in the joy that is their child, their responsibility. In the case of Justice and Reggie, the rare decision that a parent is worthy of a beautiful and smart child filled with potential to become anything, will be placed with a body that has as its credo the best intentions of the child.

This is a very scary time for all of us. For Lil and I more so than Justice, who is by design and fortune, largely insulted from all of these concerns. For the five of you who regularly read this blog (and just why aren't you commenting on this award-winning articles?) I would ask that you pray, not for us, but for Justice. Pray for both the child and the concept. It is not so important that she do that with us or with Reggie, but that she be given the best chance at a full and rewarding life.

Snips and Snails

2006-06-12T12:24:00.000-07:00

"You may be many things, Mr. McCandless," one of the ladies at church told me, "But you have never been a little girl."

My first, second and third reactions were to congratulate her on the assute powers of observation and deductive reasoning. They certainly pale in comparison to my own. I still don't know if Pat is male or female.

I felt like I was at the House Committee on Un-American Activities*:

McCarthy: Are you, ah, now or have you ever been a little girl?

Me: Senator, I have no knowledge of those activities, nor would I be disposed to discuss such activities if they did in fact exist. However, for my part, I can say that I do not now, nor have I ever endorsed myself as a little girl.

This was never proved more fully than this weekend when, while enjoying a quiet Sunday afternoon at the house, my harmonious interests were greatly disturbed by Justice and her friend Genna (BFF for those at home wondering). Hoots, screams, laughter of a high and shrill nature such that my entire skeletal system calcified were to be heard for an 8-mile radius. There was much changing of clothing, playing the bathroom, combing, brushing, and more giggling.

I attempted to innebriate myself, as the only defense for two 9 year-olds is several quick shots of whiskey. Not the good stuff either, mind you, but the stuff that is at least 80% wood alcohol and can cause blindness. This is an added benefit, since I was inundated with requests to, "Look how Genna did my hair!" and "Do you like the way Justice is wearing her beautiful dress? Isn't she pretty?"

I'm sorry, but 9 year-olds are cute, in some cases darling, but never, ever pretty. Pretty and beautiful require age and grace that running around with skinned knees and whining because you can't have ice-cream for dinner just doesn't include. There's also a certain ugliness that goes with tantrum-throwing that I've yet to find pretty no matter who is doing the screaming, yelling, slamming doors, and crying loud enough for the entire neighborhood to think, "Dear God, they're killing her. They're actually killing her!" since those sounds are only heard outside Turkish prisons and Keanu Reeves movies.

Now, I know that I was loud, obnoxious and generally made a nuisance of myself, but it was the rare time when I went to my parents and said, "See how Jase did my hair?" If I did, it was because Jase had shaved one side, and we'd spiked the other side to the point that it now had a fine edge and could be used to ram Spanish frigates.

What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice, and everything loud, annoying and related to a hair-care product.

*For the record, I'm aware that Senator Joseph McCarthy was a member of the Senate and not the House, and that his efforts were not tied to those of the HCUA. It just read better that way, ok? Sheesh.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

2006-06-07T09:55:00.000-07:00

Before I start ranting and ravving, as it my wont, let me make one point crystal clear:

Justice is nine years old.

Nine years old.

Nine years.

Ok, we can move on now. This morning, while going through my morning ritual of shaving, showering and preparing a teaspoon of heroine over an open flame, Lil came into our communal bathroom, exasperated. This being 6:30 in the morning, I was suprised to see her so animated. She quickly gathered up her curling iron, buried a dagger in my chest with a peice of paper attached that read in a flowing, pirate-y script, "It Be Your Fault!" and burst back out of the bathroom door saying, "I have no patience with Justice this morning."

This really shouldn't come as a surprise. Justice, like me, is something of a morning person. True, if we have to wake her up, then she's more of a college-senior-who-partied-all-night-and-part-of-every-day person until she gets her feet on the ground. But in the main, she's far, far too chipper for Lil whose slumber is akin to a hibernating bear: don't wake her unless you like breathing and eating through a tube.

I find the the tube gives food a slightly plastic taste.

Still, we chipper morning people are hard to be around by the coffee swilling masses, and the coffee-denying-masses-who-should-drink-coffee-but-don't. So the fact that Lil was out of patience with Justice only ten minutes after the two of them were ambulatory is really no shock. What was interesting (though not shocking) was the why.

"Justice wanted to curl her hair," Lil told me.

"Ummm, she does know her hair is crazy-curly already, right?" I replied.

"Yes, and I'm tired of telling her, so I gave her the curling iron and hopefully she'll just learn it doesn't work."

At this point, what I like to call my "Duh Factor" kicked in.

"BUT SHE'S NINE," I implored to my wife and any low-flying gods that might be in the area.

"Duh," Lil retorted.

See how it works?

You see, even for a young girl of nine, the self-proclaimed QUEEN OF HANDBALL, TETHERBALL AND SWING DODGING, Justice is incredibly vain about her appearance. She's been on us almost from day one to buy her make-up, something Lil and I are vehemently against for someone who most days has more grass stains on her knees than the entire U.S. Women's Soccer team. Last night, I found four used fake fingernails in her pencil box that she said, "A friend gave to me." She treats chapstick like lipstick, and asked me at dinner, "Does it look like I have make-up on?" as she played with her upper eyelid.

It's not that I'm opposed to make-up, or taking care of your hair. Lord knows, I have great hair and so I understand the burden of responsibility that goes along with that. It's a heavy load, but for those with comb-overs, tupees, thinning, balding or bald afflications, you understand the gravitas of having good hair. Certainly, if you had good hair, you would treat it with the respect it deserves. I will not fail you.

So, after having shot up and showered, I trundled out to see Justice preening in front of her mirror in the second bathroom. I bypassed her altogether, and went into her room, which was, as I had suspected, a disaster. With an inward smirk, I gallumphed back to the doorway of the bathroom.

"Is it working?" I asked her.

"A little bit," she replied, which in Justice-speak means 'no'.

"Have we talked about you and your hair before?"

"Yes," she says, ready to go into mope-and-whine mode.

"And what did we say?"

"I needed to get my other stuff done first."

"What about your room?"

Justice pauses, and literally, a tear comes into her eye. No, I'm serious. I can make a nine year-old cry at the drop of a hat. Yes, yes, this is the level of power that I command.

You may feel free to swoon.

Actually, Justice is a Master Thespian. She can cry and even throw up with such precision as to make a fashion model turn chartruese with envy. Crying is especially effective with new people who have often shot Lil and I the, "What kind of a monster forces such an innocent and sweet child to read? Have you no shame!?!" The throwing up worked until Lil shut that down over a perfectly good bologna sandwich. It wasn't the sandwich Justice's select palette opposed, but rather the wheat bread it was fixed with.

Wheat bread.

As opposed to white bread.

Oh, the horror.

Being immune to this, and many other of Justice's Tricks-To-Get-What-I-Want, I simply tell her that she needs to pick up and straighten her room before she can curl her hair. But knowing that this fight will continue if there isn't an added threat, I state:

"If we have to fight over this again," and here I pause for dramatic effect, "We'll go to the Great Clips and have it cut off so you don't have to worry about it."

Independence from Fireworks

2006-06-06T13:42:00.000-07:00

While driving to church Sunday (as opposed to the other days we drive to church), Lil asked me if I had ever considered living in another country. Justice piped up, as she is wont to do, and said, "Like Idaho?"

"Justice, what country do we live in?"

"California."

"No, what country?"

"Riverside."

I chuckled a little. Ahhh, the innocence of youth.

"On July 4th, what do we celebrate?"

"Independence."

"Independece from whom?"

"Fireworks."

"We celebrate independence from fireworks?"

"Oh, no. God."

"We celebrate independence from God?"

"Yes."

At this point, Lil jumped in.

"Justice, how many states are there?"

"I don't know."

I start to sing, "Mmphty, nifty United States, from the Thirteen original colonies. Shout 'em. Scout 'em. Tell all about 'em. One by one, till we've given a name . . ."

"Ohhh," Justice replied. "Fifty states!"

"Good," I say, taking hope again in the youth of our nation and the education system that attempts to create clones from children regardless of their needs or their abilities. "Now, who did the Thirteen Original Colonies belong to?"

"God."

"Ok, but more specifically, what country claimed them?"

"I don't know."

"When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people . . ." I begin.

"She won't know that."

"Why not?" I ask, baffled. I've been able to rattle off most of the Preamble for the better part of two decades.

"Oh, I know," Justice says triumphanty. "The United States!"

The History of Justice

2006-06-06T09:52:00.000-07:00

Justice isn't just a clever term that lawyers like to bandy about, and sculpters like to craft handling a sword, a set of scales and being blind-folded. In general, a woman trying to measure things and swinging a sword with a scarf around her eyes seems like a bad idea to me. Maybe there's some kind of symbolism that I'm missing. I doubt it.

But the point is, that Lillian (my wife, who I might call Lil, Beautiful, or The-Ultimate-Woman) and I have our own Justice.

Justice Nicole Diggs.

Born September 16, 1996, this little 9 year-old girl is really something. She's half Black and half Caucasion, which resulted in a lovely skin tone and curly hair that most women would kill for.

Lil and I have known Justice now for nearly two years. Lil worked with Justice's granny, Rosaleen, in the biochemistry labs of UCR. Rosaleen had taken in Justice and her three half-brothers (Chris - 4, Jeff - 3, Nathan - 2). Begining in December of 2004, we started taking Justice to church with us. About six months later, it was clear that Justice would need a more permanant place. Rosaleen just couldn't handle a 9 year-old and three little boys at the same time. The needs were different, and Justice required more direct attention than Rosaleen could provide. Two completely inexperienced and overly selfish people seemed to fit the the right bill.

Ok, fine. I'm not selfish at all. But that Lillian . . .

At this point, Lil and I began to attempt to take Foster Parent classes from Riverside County, and to get "Lifescanned". Apparently, it's easier to become the head the of the CIA than it is to become a foster parent. We attended the intial, and mandatory, orientation class, which boiled down to: here are your eighteen thousand forms, please fill them out; oh, and don't torture the children, thanks!

Then we waited.

And waited . . . and waited.

It felt like we would never get out of Casablanca.

In the interim, Rosaleen tore through two new social workers. The children had various court hearings, and so forth. Finally, Rosaleen got a new Social Worker who had apparently been in the system for some time, and legitimately cared about the welfare of the children and making everying run smoothly. She determined that Lil and I were actually friends' of the family, which allowed us to take in Justice without going through the 16 weeks of foster parent classes that are normally required.

By this point, Lil and I had sold our condo and had purchased our 1922 clapboard house. It had a front and backyard, cost more than the national debt, and had interesting little problems that made living there an adventure all its own. Like the airconditioner popping the breaker whenever you run it and the microwave at the same time.

This means you can't have hot chocolate in July.

Or you can, but it becomes really, really silly without the A/C.

But I digress.

Justice moved in with us at the end of August of 2005. It was an immediately and unprecedented adjustment period that, according the experts, will end when Justice turns 18 and goes to college. At that point, we'll all be so used to living under the same roof that seperation anxiety will occur, insuring that psychologist everywhere can worry less about their trips to Barbados and Cancun.

A national concern we feel strongly about solving.

And thus begins the history of the us. This is the way we were, the way we lived, and the roles we took to try to make one little girl's life that much better . . . even if it drove us to drinking, insanity and voting Republican.

An Apology of the Humblest Sort

2006-06-06T09:00:00.000-07:00

Thomas Paine wrote, "These are the times that try mens' souls."

Clearly, he had peaked into my personal future, and was writing not of Colonial America about to embark upon the greatest socio-political-cultural experiment of all time, but rather specifically of me, my wife Lillian and our foster-child-soon-to-be-adopted-daughter Justice Nicole.

As with petitions, I'm not a big fan of the true blog.

They generally encourage the banal and the pedantic, the arm-chair philosophers, and the desk-bound politicos, the God-fearing fire-hell-and-damnation religious right to state their views on the well-being, or lack thereof, of what they see as the most important aspects of life.

Specifically, their life.

That's not something I'm highly encouraged to add to, or to become a part of.

I believe that while my life may generally be all kinds of exciting and action packed to me (yes, riding a train for 3 1/2 hours every day is amazing), it probably isn't to the 6 billion people currently living on the planet, or the 3 billion Chinese who are currently blogging their little hearts out.

So I set forth pen to paper with a few caveats.

(Yes, I know it's keystrokes to monitor. I'm waxing poetic. Work with me, people.)

Caveat:
a. A warning or caution: “A final caveat: Most experts feel that clients get unsatisfactory results when they don't specify clearly what they want” (Savvy).
b. A qualification or explanation.
c. A way to cover one's ass without using one's hands.

Caveats regarding this blog:

1. This is a blog. This will not be the funny, quirky, humerously toned articles that you are used to seeing from me. If you want those you can go to Accelerated Culture, or to A Goose Egg.
2. This is a blog that is only intended for viewing by family and friends. It's simply the easiest way to give updates on the McCandli adventures into foster-care, adoption and general child-rearing.
3. Opinions are like tailpipes. We've all heard them, and they all stink. Some may stink less than others, and will be weighted accordingly.
4. No matter how exciting an event or a statement may be, I will never use more than two exclamation points. Winston Churchill put it best, "Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never . . . Never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the multiple exclamation point in your personal blog."

Hey, he said it. It's on a blog, so it must be true.