Tate Publishing - How You Can Help!

As some of you read on social media, there has been an issue with the publishing house that was to release my book this Valentine's Day. Apparently, Tate Publishing was going under - and during the time that they were going under and being sued by basically every major printing press in the U.S., they were also not paying royalties to authors, withholding employees pay, and continuing to take in as many new orders as they could (despite the fact that they haven't had a printing press working with them for 3 months now).

They are under investigation by the Attorney General's office as well as the FBI for supposedly shuffling funds to other LLCs they just opened so that they could potentially file for bankruptcy. Without warning, this week Tate Publishing closed their doors, shut down their phones, and the only remaining thing on their website is a contract termination form that authors can fill out, waiving all rights to a refund. Additionally, they are requiring authors to pay $50 to Tate if the author wants their own manuscripts back... they are literally charging people to reclaim their own intellectual property. (In case you didn't know it, that's kind of illegal.)

I found all of this out yesterday. So obviously yesterday sucked eggs. Plain and simple. And then today I had to reapply my big girl britches and start moving forward, figuring out how to proceed. Thankfully there have been people put in my path that know a significant amount more about this crazy publishing world than I do, and we're taking it one step at a time as we move forward, hopefully towards a soon-to-be released book!

BUT, for those of you who had already purchased The Children Who Raised Me while it was in it's early release stage, there is hope for you to get your money back! (Silver linings!) First, call your credit card or banking center that you used to make your purchase. Inform them of the situation and they will put a temporary credit on your card. This allows them an investigation phase of 2 billing cycles. During that time, Tate Publishing is able to either refund your money, produce a book for you (which they physically cannot do), or file for bankruptcy.

If they file for bankruptcy before you receive your credit, your bank or credit card holder will have to tell you what that means for your reimbursement. However, as long as you do this soon, hopefully they will miss their 2 billing cycle time frame and everyone will get their money back.

Secondly, if you would be so kind, the Attorney General's Office in Oklahoma is asking that all affected parties fill out a Consumer Complaint Form - their office has already received an incredibly high volume of complaints, and the more they get in, the better the likelihood that they will file a class-action lawsuit against Tate Publishing. I know this may mean little to you, but hear me out:

There are thousands of authors who have paid thousands (if not tens of thousands) of dollars to Tate Publishing - beautiful people wanting to find a good "Christian" publishing house that will make their dreams come true. People like you and me with stories to tell - the kind of stories that will inspire and make the world a better place. These lovely people have been lied to, cheated, and manipulated by the very company that promised them success and a platform for ministry. These people are hurting, broken, in shock, and now without the rights to their own materials or the money they've given over to these people.

I am only one of those people... there are so many more who have now lost access to not just one, but multiple books and all of the royalties promised to them. Filing a claim will help increase the chance that these hard-working folks may get a portion of their money refunded to them. For some, this is the only way they can afford to move on with their book being published (or re-published in many cases). Without this, many stories will go untold.

So, to all of you who have been faithful with me on this journey through your love, encouragement, prayers, or purchasing of my book - I cannot say thank you enough. And now I ask you just do one more thing by filing the claim below and giving all of the affected authors a new chance to tell their stories. Thank you. So much love to you all!

Just Another Day

               Ok, so yesterday was just an average day. And I know I should feel ashamed about this, but my toddler watched the movie “Cars” 3 times yesterday (twice back to back) while I did work from home. I made sure he was fed, changed, and safe… but otherwise, I did very little parenting for the little fella outside of helping him build a train track. This kept him occupied for all of 4 minutes before he would scream out of frustration because one of the train cars would derail, at which point I would give him a bowl of crackers and cheerfully suggest he go watch Lightening McQueen some more.

            Parenting score, right?

            So later that evening, my kids returned home from school and The Hubs helped them finish homework while I got dinner on the table and rushed my son off to youth group. Realizing I hadn’t really talked to my oldest outside of hurried dinner conversation, I casually asked him how his day at school was.

            Now, usually this would be answered with a “fine”. And good moms would then press for more information. Unfortunately, I was not feeling in the mood to be a “good” mom. I hate pressing for more information because then I usually hear about how he got in trouble for something and we have to write apology letters and call school personnel and figure out consequences… and who has the energy for that day in and day out, really?! Not this mama.

            But last night, after I ran a trillion errands and listened to the “Cars” background music while making umpteen phone calls, I asked the question, “How was your day, Cam” and was then regaled with a 15-minute monologue about his day. He spoke in speeds that could rival an auctioneer. Only his words made no sense and his stories never really came together clearly. But I was not given the chance to ask for further explanation because, well, he wouldn’t shut up long enough for me to do so. (And honestly, was I listening all that closely? Mmmmm, no.)

            I dropped him off at the church and drove home while my ears finished ringing. All I wanted to do was to go home, put my feet up, and play candy crush (on mute) so that I could unwind from the frazzled day that was not close enough to being over.

            And that’s just when the female child wanted all of the attention. ALL OF IT. She wanted to play games and paint nails and have me guess random objects she was holding behind her back (I mean, seriously, that’s desperation, right there). And all I wanted to do was zone out for the briefest of moments….

            However, just as all hope felt lost, I remembered my old faithful trick. “Taylor, I have an idea of what we can do! Do you want to practice doing hair? I’ll let you practice on me…” We hadn’t played this game in a while, mainly because I have curly hair and she has the talons of an eagle, scraping and clawing at my curls without the slightest bit of compassion. Yet I knew that if she was this desperate for a playmate, she would be gentler than usual.

            Sure enough, this child of mine sprang to attention and immediately ran for my brush and all the hair accessories she could find. And for the next hour, I sat there as she gently played with my hair, putting me into a partial coma, me barely hearing the long stream of high-pitched words emerging without stop from her lips. With each brush stroke and each careful twist of the hair, I was instantly transported into a state of complete calm.

            And then she asked if she could massage my feet….

            What is happening to my life right now?!? I could barely fathom my luck, but there she sat, rubbing my tootsies and tickling at my ankles. My body felt like putty and all I wanted to do was tell her that I was sorry for all the times I’d grounded her or scolded her for getting into my things. I was willing to forgive all wrongs and forget the past entirely. We were starting fresh in that moment, and I was going to sleep like a baby.

            My husband arrived home with my oldest from church at 8pm and it was time for everyone to brush their teeth and get ready for bed. Sadly, my time of soothing had to come to an end - but that was okay, because I was still fully relaxed...

And then the kids argued over something stupid in the bathroom and the lights were left on and clothes were left everywhere in the kitchen (why are they in the kitchen in first place? No one will ever know.) and people kept finding reasons to avoid bedtime and, wouldn’t you know it, my feeling of calm left as quickly as it had come.

            I had to do the yelling and threatening once more… I was willing to charge them their Christmas money to pay the electric bill, tape them to their beds if they got up once again, and I was all about ready to light “Cars” on fire if the toddler screamed to watch it for the fourth time that day (because honestly, 4 times is where any decent mother draws the line, right?).

            Distressed but trying to appear “normal”, I ran the idea of Ben and Jerry’s past my husband… but he wasn’t biting. “You’re not asking me to go to the store for ice cream right now, are you?” he asked.

            “Gosh no, I was just saying that if you ever feel like it, it’s on sale at Uni-Mart…” I replied hopefully.

            He didn’t take the bait, so I retreated upstairs with the toddler to watch Peppa Pig and make a blanket tent out of my bedding in an attempt to calm him enough for bed. After a half hour of suffocating under my sheets, I was able to wrangle the little guy into his crib, accompanied by his handful of matchbox cars.

            Twenty minutes later, I heard the familiar clang of a car falling out of the crib, followed by the equally familiar calls from my youngest. “Mama! Oh, Mama!! My car car fall out da bed!” I arose and retrieved his car, kissed him goodnight again, and went to watch something non-animated on the television as I tried to fall asleep. Then the clang happened again… but this time the car had fallen behind the crib. There was no way in the world that I was moving his bed at 10:30pm to pick up a toy car.

            And I told my sobbing child just that. Although that didn’t seem to stop him from yelling, “Mama, oh Mama” a million more times with increasing vigor. So, I did what all “good” parents would do… I turned up the volume on my TV, turned down the volume on the baby monitor, and I willed myself to close my eyes and wake up on a beach somewhere. (PS, I still woke up at home and next to a hairy man hogging my side of the bed.)

            It was just an average day… nothing unusual, just a day. And my house isn’t the beach, despite the January rain acting deceptively like a monsoon. But I am content with these chatty, arguing, squawking little people with all their quirks and peculiarities. I’m happy with my hairy bed-sharer. I am fulfilled at my job that makes me talk on the phone CONSTANTLY and neglect my child to the television sometimes. And I am happy being just a “good” mom. We make it work and I’m kinda proud of us for doing so.

Photo by: suckhoedoisong.vn

Kissing Childhood Good-bye

Feeling submerged in the wide world of potty-training, Christmas festivities, and running a homeless shelter, I apparently neglected to realize that my older two (almost 9 and almost 11) have “fallen in love”. (I know, but don’t laugh because if you laugh it makes them really angry… unless you’re trying to make them angry… and then you can laugh all you want!)

Gone are the good old days of crushes and dreams of marrying a llama – in are the traumatizing years of the pre-teens. The crazy stage in life that makes insane children contemplate finding a mate and want to reproduce, passing on their sub-par genes to yet another generation. Just what this world needs more of these days.

So last night, while I was caught up in all the thoughts that come when you drive (not stop lights and turn signals, gosh no! I’m talking about grocery lists and last minute Christmas cards, and trying to remember if I ate dinner or not), my children caught me off guard with this question:

“Mom, how old do we have to be to kiss?”

Not quite understanding the question, I asked, “Kiss each other??” This was obviously the wrong answer as both kids simultaneously burst out into gags and comments about how despicable I am as a human being for even suggesting sibling affection.

“Mom,” Taylor clarified, “how old do we have to be to kiss who we want to marry?”

Hold the phone, stop the train, shut the front door. Do all of the things that need to be done to halt this conversation and bring me up to speed! “Wait a second… what are you talking about?” I asked while trying to see their shadowy faces in the rearview mirror as we drove past the street lights.

Cameron was the one who spoke next. “Okay, so Taylor and I know who we want to marry and they want to marry us back, so when can we kiss them? That’s the answer we want to know.”

This may seem rude to you, but my first thought wasn’t about getting the shot gun and protecting my children from unwanted suitors. Nope, it was outright awe that my children had found requited “love” in the first place! Who were these other children and are they being blackmailed? Held at gunpoint perhaps? I tried to verbalize my words carefully, not wanting to hurt my kids’ feelings too badly.

“Um…. So… people like you guys, then? Is that what you’re saying? Like, real people? People your age?”

“Mom, I told you weeks ago that Michael and I are getting married! Don’t you even remember at all?” Taylor actually looked hurt. And now that she mentioned it, I vaguely recalled the conversation after meeting this child at the school open house back in the fall. But kids are so fickle, I obviously didn’t think he would still be the crush (um, I mean “true love”) of the week.

“And Mom, I’ve liked Addison almost this whole year! She already told me we’re getting married so I thought, hey, we might as well kiss, then.”

I stared at my children with my mouth hanging open far longer than I’m comfortable with as a perpetual nose-breather. But I couldn’t fathom what was happening in our universe that was causing this ridiculous conversation to take place! Cameron hates physical touch and is asking to lock lips with some girl who proposed to him because they’ve been “going out” for like, almost 2 months… and Taylor just keeps telling me how utterly obsessed she is with her current boyfriend and his “delicious blonde hair” (and no, I’m not kidding). No matter how much I tried, I just couldn’t find this cutesy and not creepy. Could Not Do It.

“Ok… So, Taylor. What exactly do you have in common with Michael? I mean, how do you know that this is the boy you want to supposedly marry?”

“Well, I don’t know what supposedly means, but I think I should marry Michael because he’s really cute and he’s got adorable dimples AND he likes to do cartwheels just like me.”

Adorable dimples? What on earth is happening here?

“So you think he’s cute and he can do a cartwheel… those are your qualifications for a spouse?”

Taylor seemed prepared for her next answer and delivered it with confidence. “Well, you married Dad and he’s cute and can do a cartwheel, so why can’t I marry Michael?”

How do you argue with that logic, I mean, she had a point.

“You do realize that Dad and I didn’t fall in love because he could do a cartwheel, right? And that’s certainly not what made us choose to get married. You really should have more in common than cartwheels at least.”

“Well, Michael loves to swing – so do I. And he loves to play volleyball – so do I…”

“Taylor, you’ve never played volleyball in your life!”

“Well, it looks fun and I bet I’d like it.”

Cameron interjected that he, too, has very important things in common with his future wife. “Addison and I both love art and hate Math. But she dated all the other boys in my class already and still chose me to marry so that’s pretty good!”

Aw, he looked so proud of that fact. Apparently words like “floozy” and “trollop” haven’t made it to the vocab tests yet. Regardless of their obvious misunderstanding of all things love-related, they had asked a question and I needed to give them an answer.

“No one can kiss anyone who is not a family member until they are 16 years old, understood?” There was no need for them to know that my first kiss came just before my 13th birthday and that I probably wouldn’t even allow them to kiss at 16 either.

“Sweet!” Taylor exclaimed. “I’m almost allowed to kiss! I just have… (doing mental math) 9 more years!”

“Nah uh, Taylor, you have 10 more years and I have 9 more years. I get to kiss before you because I’m older.”

Sweet Lord, they can’t even get the numbers right. And that gave me an idea…

“New rule… no kissing until you can do math correctly.” I proclaimed.

“Aw, that’s not even fair!” Taylor squawked while Cameron said, “I guess I better tell Addison we’re NEVER going to be able to get married then… thanks a lot, Mom.”

Apparently their true loves were not motivation enough to study their math facts more effectively. But my plan worked so I wasn’t too upset by it. Hopefully Michael and Addison will one day be able to move on (although I’m guessing Miss Addison already has) and that another girl who can add will find Michael’s dimples just as adorable.

(***The names of both crushes have been changed to protect the innocent. However, I would strongly encourage all 5th grade moms out there to talk to their daughters about responsible marriage proposals. PS, I’m very sorry for calling your daughter a floozy. Kind of.***)

PSS.... buy my book (subliminal messaging inserted here).

Photo: Tumblr

"The Children Who Raised Me" ~ Now Available!

In case you missed the memo (which, how could you because I've basically been blowing up my social media feeds with the news because I'm SOOOO excited), my first book is now available online at tatepublishing.com!  If you've followed my family's story, you may already know some of what falls in the pages of this particular memoir. However, have no fear, there is plenty of NEW content that helps put our lives into some perspective. 

From foster care to adoption, mental health behaviors to Reactive Attachment Disorder, grief and loss to new life, Christian parenting to just plain survival - this book has a little bit of something for everyone and I'm so blessed that God gave me the words that needed to be said... words that are hard to say. Although I floundered my way through much of it, my deepest aim was to shed light on the hard parts of raising someone else's children... to say the things that we're told not to say, and to take away the facade that all things related to adoption, fostering, and just plain parenting is nothing but happiness and love.

Because let's be honest. It's oftentimes not. In fact, sometimes it sucks so badly that you can't find breath and you make parenting mistakes and you cry ugly tears that no one should ever feel they need to hide out of shame. We are ALL together in this parenting thing. Whether it's messed or blessed, we are together. Even when you've felt you couldn't go on another moment; Even when you gave up and came back and gave up again and came back again all within the same 10 minutes; Even if you feel like you're failing...

There is always Hope.

And you are never alone.

Small Victories

            There is a picture of a woman jogging on my desktop background. To those of you that know me, this is an obvious sign that I’m breaking down. Because, for one, it’s athletic. And two, it’s jogging. Women shouldn’t jog. It goes against our anatomical make-up. Too many things bounce and jiggle and smack us in the face if we try. It’s just not natural.

            But I chose this picture as my background because, for one, my computer crashed and I lost all that was near and dear to me (electronically speaking). Did I back up to the magical world of clouds and boxes? Of course not. I mean, I thought I did… but did you know those things get full and stop backing things up automatically? I didn’t know that.

            I digress.

            I chose this jogger as my picture, not just because my computer crashed and I lost all my other pictures that were on Windows 8, sending me into the bizarre land of Windows 10 (that makers of which are obviously trying to push this God-forsaken sport onto us)… but I chose this picture because the woman was jogging on the beach. And the beach – its sand and soothing waves – is my safe place. It’s my womb. It’s the place I wish to crawl into and rest until all is right with the world again.

            Life has been busy, as it always is. But it’s been extra busy with computers crashing and car batteries dying, preparing to build a house, books coming out and opening a homeless shelter the same week of Thanksgiving (because who does that!!!). Life has been busy, so much so that I didn’t allow myself to prepare for my children and their RAD. It was almost as if, because I had forgotten the holiday was coming, that I my children would also magically forget or something.

            But let me assure you, they didn’t.

            In true RAD form, my children rose to the occasion like Gladiators. They wore their armor and prepped for battle while I mindlessly went about my errands and craziness, completely unprepared for the fight. Sitting here now, I feel ashamed of myself for getting so busy that I neglected to remember the tell-tale signs. I let my guard down and am now paying the price.

            Between the two of them in a few days’ time, we had sexual advances, horrific disrespect to women, a near flooding of the basement because someone took the washer apart, my beautiful Willow Tree collectible items were colored on (and not by the toddler), and an entire melted candle was poured down our drain.

            You guys, it’s been 3 days and we still can’t use our tubs, sinks, or toilets! My house smells like a sewer and, no matter how many times I tell these little people NOT to flush the toilets, they just keep on flushing them, sending them to near-overflowing. Mind you, these same children NEVER flush a toilet to save their lives. But not this week… This week, they are freaking toilet-flushing machines!

            We literally drove to our church to poop today. All of us. We just sat there and waited till we all had to go. Because that’s what parents of RAD children get to do in their “free time”.

            So, to break up the fun of waiting for the bowels to move, I decided to collect more items for the shelter our church opened this week. A house was being torn down and there was furniture that needed to be salvaged. I traipsed in with 2 RADs and a toddler before realizing that we had, in fact, entered a crack house.

            Awesome.

            My kids dove into the plunder like pirates looking for buried treasure, while I took the razor blade off the two-year-old who had found it atop the mirror stained with special white powder marks on the kitchen counter. And when my almost 9-year-old asked if she could keep the pretty vase for her room, I hadn’t the heart to tell her that it wasn’t actually a vase at all but something that we could get arrested for owning. It was when my oldest stuck his hand into a bag filled with urine-soaked items that I decided I was totally not going to win the mother of the year award (again, dang it!).

            We salvaged what we could safely clean and took it to the shelter. I answered no less than 3 trillion questions about nothing important, and the toddler developed a fever and runny nose… he probably got a case of second-hand drug use from the crack house. I’m watching for signs of withdrawal as we speak.

            And after we went back to the church to “finish our deeds”, we finally arrived back home. And these children couldn’t believe that I was exhausted. How dare I not play with them on a Monday during business hours. How dare I not entertain them and watch movies and celebrate the holiday weekend with them instead of working. How dare I not allow them to make play dates when they’ve acted like complete fools for the better part of a week.

            And all I could do was sit and stare at the woman jogging on my computer screen. I knew in real life that her boobs must be killing her, but I wanted nothing more than to be her in that moment. I’d trade sore nips for a battered heart any day of the week. It also occurred to me that running is about small victories – counting down the mile markers, keeping track of breaths and strides, staying focused on just the next step.

            My kids, although complete terrors this week, didn’t lie about their behaviors – they took ownership. They didn’t fight their consequences, they accepted them. They still can’t tell me why and I still have no idea what will make them stop, but there were small victories nevertheless.

           Today, as I sat there crying to a near-stranger, I realized that now is the time to count my breaths and strides – to focus on just the moment that is in front of me. My body may hurt and my mind may scream against all that is happening, but there is a sea of beauty all around, just waiting to be noticed. And whereas I may not have a physical beach to calm my frantic soul, I know that, breath by breath and stride by stride, peace is mine for the taking.