Bless the children

I have a date for Valentines Day. My DH and I are going to a prime rib dinner, humorous talk about marriage and dancing (as if!)
This was all brought about by my job.
I’ll be covering the event as a reporter. So we get in free. It’s one of the perks of being a reporter. I suppose it makes up for all those nights sitting in industrial government buildings talking about sewer systems.
Earlier this week, after my boss offered me the chance to cover this story, he called and asked me to cover another story about “Grandfamilies, a kinship parenting program.” In a nutshell, a program for grandparents, aunts and uncles raising children abandoned by their drug addicted parents.
He said the woman assigned to cover the story would “switch” with me so she could cover the sweethearts event. HaHaHa! No.
If I am going to be obliged to listen to depressing stories of babies wandering the streets in diapers because mommy is in a drug-induced crash state, I jolly well want to get the joyful coverage of happy marriages, too.
And let’s not fool ourselves; the Grandfamilies meeting about methamphetamines was plenty heartbreaking.
I don’t know what was worse, seeing the dirty children in the arms of policemen wearing haz-mat protection, or the image of a child on a couch with his mother next to him, face down, handcuffs behind her back, or the story of the baby who drank pure meth oil thinking it was apple juice. He’s alive, but still eating through a tube.
The good news is, these are the lucky children. The are the ones being rescued from a life of chaos and squalor. They have kinship families stepping in to pick up the slack.
If I ever think my house is a pigpen again, all I have to do is remember the images of cockroach infested kitchens, sinks full of beer cans, refrigerators with open cans of spaghetti O’s, a lively mold population, and who knows what else.
Yes, my bathrooms could use a good scrubbing, but they are not open cesspools. True, I should make the bed more often, but I don’t allow my babies to flop where they will, on bare mattresses stained with blood and urine, on blankets flecked with meth shards, in rooms where handguns are cocked and loaded on coffee tables.
I know some of my blog friends have a much closer view of this situation than I do. A much closer view than I ever wish to see. When I tuck my children in at night, I need to remember what a blessing it is to know they are safe, to know, with all my faults that I am a good mother.
Tuesday, when I go to the prime rib dinner, comical speaker and dancing (as if!) I will hold my husband extra close and think him for being the husband and father he is to my children.
I am truly blessed.