I have a plan.

How about, this week, I tell you about these two things:

Cousin Cate’s wedding and my boyfriend?  Does that sound like a good plan?

(I’m telling you this here so I have to actually do it.)

– — –

Get this — I had gotten all excited about blogging and was gathering up pictures to write some posts

when a friend of mine mentioned that someone had written a “mean girls” post about me on a hate blog.

I wanted to go find that post and defend myself, because that’s what I like to do, you know.

I came straight home and tried to find the post.

But I couldn’t find it, which is probably a good thing.

But still.

I hate that I would even care at all that some anonymous person

would write ugly things about me behind a pseudonym.

That kind of stuff takes the joy right out of blogging

right when I was finally getting the joy back.

But the worst part?

The fact that I even cared about what someone anonymously said about me

means I still haven’t reached the point where

the opinion of man doesn’t affect me.

You know what this means, don’t you?

It means I’ve still got some growing and developing and refining to do as an adult.

DANG IT.

Late summer and early fall in my life, when I wasn’t blogging much, was full with work, taking care of Mr. Four Year Old and preparing Miss Eighteen for her big transition in life: moving out of my home and attending college.

I’ve already mentioned that we moved Miss Eighteen into a house about 27 feet from my front door because the state wouldn’t allow her to keep living with me when she turned 18.  She wasn’t keen on living far away from me at the time and it made perfect sense to keep her close by since I would continue raising her son while she tried to adjust to the freedoms that come with turning eighteen.  The state of Tennessee makes certain allowances for foster children when they come of age and Miss Eighteen was poised to reap the fruits of what the state had to offer from college tuition paid to a free laptop to a monthly “independent living allowance” that, on its own, completely paid for her rent, utilities and other bills.

Of course, to qualify for all of this, there was a mountain of paperwork.  When I first saw the list of tasks we had to complete for the state, I felt a bit lightheaded.  I love lists, mainly because I love to check items off them and feel a sense of accomplishment.  But when I saw what we had to do to get this girl out of state’s custody and on her own… well, even I was overwhelmed.

We registered for classes, turned in custody papers and confirmed vaccinations at the Health Department.  We sent in forms to the state and, when they “never arrived,” I drove the copies to their office an hour away and spent the better part of an hour standing in a lobby until the right state employee came out to accept the paperwork from me.  We set-up financial aid, met the director of the college’s nursing program and opened her very own checking account.  She completed parenting classes, substance abuse classes and a host of other requirements.  We hit the ground running and didn’t look back until every single stamp of approval was given to us.

But, of course, it didn’t stop there.

At the state’s requirement, Miss Eighteen had to move out of my home and into a small residence of her own.  To get her ready for that, we completed a whole other list of requirements our DCS office gave us.  We looked at apartments, signed a lease, scoured Craig’s List, taught (me) and learned (her) about pro-rated rent and the legalities of a rental agreement, etc.  With a single foster mama budget plus a whole lot of people that cared about her, we procured the basic furniture, cooking supplies, cleaning items, etc. that Miss Eighteen had to have in her home in order to fulfill a state requirement for her son to be eventually granted into her custody.  We had late night talks on my bed about what it meant to move out and be on your own.  We talked candidly about the freedom of having your own apartment and not having anyone watching your day-to-day actions.  We hit the college sales at Target and bought $3 mirrors, $2 trashcans and $1 packs of hangers for her new closet.  We discussed decorating schemes and she picked zebra with a hint of purple and pink.  We moved her into her new place where she could look out her kitchen window and see straight into my kitchen window.  She had a safe place to live, a free college education and more money than she needed for bills.  It was a perfect solution, or so we all — case workers, myself, etc. — thought.

That was a little over three months ago.  The days since then have been long and hard.  With a series of small decisions and then one really bad decision, she lost it all.  Everything she worked for, everything I worked for… it was gone so quickly.  I replaced my former to-do list with a new one: turn off her utilities; clean out her apartment; give back all the borrowed furniture.  Notify the part-time job, notify the college, notify the day care.  I’ve been doing those things and plenty more over the past three weeks and, within a few days, I’ll finally be done.  Earlier this week I obtained an order of protection after Miss Eighteen chose to tell a case worker that she was going to “come after [me] with a baseball bat.”  I realize this is coming from a person whose mind is being greatly influenced by substance abuse, but for me, it was all I needed to close the door that I had opened for her this past February.  It is no longer emotionally, mentally or physically safe for me to invest in this person’s life and, even though what I’m about to say goes against my very nature, it’s time to completely let go of this person.  I’m ready to be irrevocably done with Miss Eighteen and, thankfully, the judge agreed with my plea.  Other than a couple of loose ends to tie up, I really am done.

And I’m shocked by how relieved I feel.

After visiting Marisa and baby in the hospital on Friday night, I realized that I had a free weekend.  On Saturday morning, I hit the ground running with a list of errands I wanted to accomplish.  I picked up my mail at the Post Office, dropped a deposit off at the bank, went by the vet’s office to buy some dog food, etc.  Honestly, I was just trying to keep myself busy while I struggled with a decision I needed to make: whether or not I was going to go visit Miss Eighteen in jail.

The jail she is in (which is two counties away from my town) only offers one visiting time a week for female inmates.  I saw Miss Eighteen right after she was arrested for a four minute visit; since then, the visiting hours have been canceled two weeks in a row due to events happening near the jail that caused the streets to be blocked.  I had called ahead on Friday to confirm that visiting hours would be taking place this past Saturday, but asked the warden to not let Miss Eighteen know I was considering coming in case I decided not to go.

After I finished all my errands, I pulled into a parking lot to make a decision.  I either needed to head to the jail then (to make it before visiting hours ended) or not go at all.  I sat there, mentally weighing my options, and decided that I was going to go simply because I was concerned that no one else would be going to visit her.  This girl has put me through emotional and financial hell, but at the end of the day, she honestly doesn’t have anyone left but me and her case workers.  As I pulled out of the parking lot, I couldn’t help but thinking I was making a big mistake.

During the 45 minute drive to the jail, my stomach twisted into knots.  Based on reception to me the other time I had come, right after she was admitted and wanted to blame her consequences on everyone but herself, I had a sinking feeling that she might refuse to even see me.  I mentally prepared myself the whole way there and, by the time I had pulled into the parking lot, I had resigned myself to the fact that I had driven myself straight into heartache.

The parking lot was a zoo.  The jail she is in is overcrowded and doesn’t have a waiting room, so you have to go inside, sign yourself in and then go stand in the parking lot until a guard calls your name.  Once I had signed myself in, I went and stood next to my car, hoping the wait wouldn’t be too long.  Meanwhile, I watched as the prisoners peered out tiny window slots, looking to see if their family was there to visit them.  The window panes were so small that only one face could be seen at a time and I noticed that, out of the 20 or so faces that took turns looking out the window, none of them were of the girl I have come to love as a daughter.

After about twenty minutes had passed, there was a sudden banging on the window where the female inmates were housed.  Everyone looked up and, to my disbelief, I saw Miss Eighteen staring out at me, motioning frantically to get my attention.  She looked shocked to see me standing there in my leggings and big sunglasses and quickly made a “wait a minute” sign with her hand.  A couple of moments later, she returned to the window and pressed a piece of notebook paper up to it so I could see her handwritten message to me.  In handwriting I recognized from the card she gave me this past Mother’s Day, I saw her simple note –

“I’m so glad you came.  I’m sorry.”

She pulled the paper away from the window and looked at me with big eyes, waiting to see my reaction.  Everyone in the parking lot was staring at me and all I could manage to do was nod my head that yes, I saw her message.  I walked to the other side of the parking lot, where I wouldn’t have to watch her staring at me through the window pane, and took a seat on a bench next to a woman who was waiting to see her own daughter.  We both sat there for another 1.5 hours, waiting, and occasionally offering up some effort at conversation.  At no point in the 1.5 hours did I tell her my name or did she tell me hers, yet we shared a bench and a Saturday afternoon task that neither of us wanted to have.  Her name was called before mine and I was still sitting on that bench when she came stumbling out of the jail fifteen minutes later, tears coursing down her face.  She wished me luck, got into her car and drove away.

I was the last to be called and I was taken into a room where two other people sat waiting to see their loved ones.  Before long, Miss Eighteen was seated in front of me with thick glass separating us.  We sat there for the first two minutes not talking and then, slowly, I asked her how she was doing.  She went on to tell me that she’s in a cell designed to hold four inmates that is currently holding eight other women, something I verified later with the warden.  She’s at the “bottom of the food chain,” so instead of getting one of the four beds in the cell, she instead has a corner with a mat that lost its stuffing many weeks ago.  There’s no pillows allowed in the cell and now no towels, either, after two of the women tried to use them to commit suicide.

The visit was painfully awkward.  She, through tears, told me that she’s at her rock bottom and that she’s learned her lesson after eighteen days of jail.  I just said there, listening, and not really saying much.  I have the ability to get her out of there at any moment through a release program the judge has offered, but I have refused to do it and have no plans to do it.  I know that may sound harsh, but I’ve made that decision based on information and advice from the case workers, none of whom think it would be a good idea for me to intervene at this point.  I have tried desperately to hear true remorse in her voice but all I can hear is plans to pawn car titles for bail money and reasons why the judge should drop the charges against her.

When our fifteen minutes was up, I headed out to my car to retrieve some underwear and socks I had bought for her after one of the kind-hearted guards had quietly mentioned to me that she was in need.  I gave them to the clerk at the desk and headed back out to my car to start the drive back to my house.  As I was walking to my car, I heard the same banging I had heard hours earlier and looked up at the window to see her peering out at me.  Through tears, she flashed the sign for “I love you” through the window.  I held up my hand and made the sign back to her and then got in my car and, knowing she was watching, drove away with absolutely no feelings whatsoever.

When does love give up?

Well, internet, that cousin of mine had a baby yesterday after a very, very long day of effort on her part.

I got to sit with her for awhile yesterday morning while she went through a few hours of labor with no epidural.  On one hand, the scene playing out in front of me was horrifying.  On the other hand, Marisa and I played baby dolls for YEARS as children and this was like the ultimate “let’s play with our baby dolls, Marisa!” moment.  I kept reverting back into my childhood and thinking about the untold hours Marisa and I spent “diapering” and “feeding” our “babies.”  I had to bite my tongue to keep the eight year old girl inside of me from yelling “this is EPIC!” every time Marisa had a contraction because I didn’t think she’d appreciate the sentiment in the moment.  But really.  EPIC.

The only problem I’ve noticed so far with baby Rylan’s arrival is that I seem to have contracted a case of baby fever that may or may not be causing British Boyfriend to break out in a cold sweat every time I bring up the topic in our phone conversations.  Ooopsies.

Well, it’s baby day here in Tennessee!  My cousin Marisa went into the hospital a few hours ago to be induced.  Little Rylan apparently enjoys his womb with a view but we’re giving that baby an eviction notice today.

In honor of baby day, I thought I’d show you a few pictures I took at Marisa’s baby shower.  We gave her a shower a few weeks ago and had the best time.  The day of her shower was a crazy day for me; I had two shoots in Chattanooga on either side of the time of the shower so I went back and forth between the towns trying to be at everything.  I ended up being able to only stay at the shower for about half of it, but I got to be there for the best part — gifts!

My mom gave Marisa a br**st pump.  Have you ever seen someone look so happy to be given a device that will put her through untold hours of torture?

For my gift for Marisa, I went with a whole basket theme.  I picked out a basket that matched the nursery decor and then went with a theme of “sock monkey.”  When Marisa and I were kids, she loved the sock monkey so I thought it is only natural that we continue the family tradition.  Also, I hope you’ll note that this picture was taken in the backseat of my car.  I like to get fancy with my photography studios, you know.

Of course, for a sock monkey basket, we had to have an actual sock monkey…

In the bottom of the basket, I layered packages of baby wipes and then placed a designer maternity gown on top that Marisa has had her eye on for awhile.  For the record, I can guarantee that, even though Marisa is currently in labor at the time I’m typing these words, I’m certain she’s looking better than me right now.  The girl just doesn’t have an “off” day, designer maternity gown or not.

I filled the basket with various things from her registries but the really special gift was a scrapbook I’ve been working on for her baby.  I found a scrapbook with a sock monkey embroidered on the front and then went from there as I filled it with pages about her baby’s arrival into the world.  When Marisa pulled the scrapbook out of the basket, she was definitely excited to be given an “empty” scrapbook for the baby.  But her face when she opened it up and saw the first page made us both start crying.

Here’s Marisa “reading” the scrapbook to the crowd.

I’m not a great scrapbooker, but I gave it my best.  I decided to go with a “Once upon a time” type of theme.  The book began with the words, “One day, something wonderful happened” and showed pictures from Marisa’s wedding day.  Then, on the next page, I wrote “But then, something even more wonderful happened” and included pictures of Marisa’s positive pregnancy test, her first ultrasound, etc.

Of course, there was a page about the party we had to find out if the baby was a girl or boy.

And pages about the new family members that baby is going to meet, too.

My favorite part of the book is the last half of it which is pages I designed to show things that hadn’t happened yet.  For example, I decorated a page about the baby shower and then, where the pictures should go, I lightly attached a piece of paper that said “Place photos from the baby shower HERE.”  I did similar pages for the day of delivery, the baby’s first bath, etc.  I figured it would be nice to give her a “pre-made” scrapbook that we can just add pictures to as we go!

I’m really excited for today.  Babies are a big deal to me, maybe because they tend to bring a lot of hope and peace and love into extended families.  Yesterday, I could hardly concentrate on anything but this baby.  It was killing me that I couldn’t do anything to make time pass more quickly, so I got a little creative and made a basket to have in Marisa’s hospital room when she arrived.  I went to the grocery store and picked up some little food items like fruit, cookies, drinks, etc. and put them in a basket along with a card explaining that they were for Brandon, Marisa’s husband, to enjoy out of her sight during labor.  I figured it might be nice for him to have some snacks so he doesn’t have to leave her room while she’s in labor.  I also included a promise in the card that, after Marisa gives birth today, I’ll go get her whatever she wants to eat.

Here’s the basket when I put it together…

And then I dressed it up a bit to make it “new-baby” worthy…

I then drove it down to the hospital where Marisa is giving birth and left it with the nurses on shift.  Marisa wasn’t checking in until midnight last night, so they promised me they’d slip it into her room for when she arrived at the labor and delivery ward.  Yay!

Well, I’m off to work now.  I’ve got a busy day ahead of me (technically, I’m working all day and all evening) but I’m going to find some pockets of time to run down to Chattanooga to see baby Rylan’s progress.  After all, it’s not every day that’s baby day.

1. My cousin Cate to move back to Tennessee so I can have someone to share local life with again.

2. My cousin Marisa to have her baby.  One way (naturally) or another (induction), that baby will be here this week.

3. The desire to flat iron my hair.  I want to flat iron it, because I love the way it looks, but I have a lot of hair and it takes me about an hour to flat iron it.

4. That British Boyfriend of mine to arrive for a lengthy Christmas visit (lengthy = twelve days).

5. My old blogging self to return so I can tell you all about my boyfriend and what a good man he is.

6. The freedom I know that God can give me over my bad eating / exercise habits if I’ll do things His way.

7. Various relationships in my family to be restored.  I want to share this time in my life with my family so badly.

8. Paying off bills so I can have room in my budget for some winter clothes.

9. A package my boyfriend sent me last week.  Mail takes awhile with that whole pesky ocean thing, you know.

10. You to pull me back onto this blog and keep me here.

What about you?  What are you waiting for?  Comments are open.

Yesterday was Orphan Sunday.

Around the world yesterday, sermons were preached about taking care of orphans, meals of rice and beans were eaten to recognize the food orphans eat each day (if they’re lucky enough to survive starvation) and, hopefully, thousands of hearts were inclined to hear the cry of the orphan and respond in some way.  I had the day on my mind since the moment I woke up yesterday morning and thought about it until I fell asleep last night.

I didn’t do anything to mark the day.  I just cleaned and cried.

You see, yesterday I finished cleaning out the little girls’ / foster kids’ room.  It has needed to happen for months now but I haven’t done it.  Cleaning out their room meant that they’re never coming back and I can’t process that.  I thought that this was a fatherless generation — a generation where children were going to grow up without their fathers — but over the last two years, I’ve had a motherless generation living in my house.  Out of the eight children I’ve taken care of on and off for the last two years, only one remains with a mother in her life (Aviean).  Of the remaining seven, this is how it breaks down:

four of the kids have mothers in jail

two of the kids have mothers missing (i.e. we have no idea where they are or if they’re still alive)

one of the kids has a mother awaiting jail sentencing

– — –

I’m not sure how God works but I think that, before He placed me in my mother’s womb, He placed something inside of me that wants to take care of the motherless child.  I grew up playing with baby dolls, obsessed with them, really.  To this day, I like kids but I’ve got to be honest — the ones that really interest me are the ones who need love.  I love my friends’ children and love the distant role I get to play in their lives.  But my heart beats for the children who need someone to love them because no mother is there loving them.  Working with children in a day care setting?  Not for me.  Teaching a Sunday School class of seven year olds?  Not for me.  But taking the orphan into my house and loving her?  I think I was created for that.

I haven’t written a lot lately because what I’m going through feels sacred to me and I’m not sure how much I want to share with the world.  It’s kids’ lives and I’m not sure how much deserves to be public.  But I’ve been here, trying to wrestle it out with God and figure out what good He sees in these situations.  I’ve been here packing up their things.  I’ve been here thinking about my own childhood and how that has played into the last two years I’ve spent taking care of needy children.  I’ve been here thinking about how God works and how He loves.  I’ve been here feeling like I don’t fit in with loved ones that I want to fit in with.  I’ve been here fearing emotional intimacy in my dating relationship.  I’ve been here wondering if I failed God.  I’ve been here wondering if it isn’t more likely that those parents failed their kids.  I’ve just been here.  No eloquence.  I’ve just been here.

Last night, after I hung up on a hard phone call, I just sat at my kitchen table and cried.  Part of it was because when I think about Angelina in fourth grade without me to come home to at night, this urge to physically tear something apart comes over me because I have no other way to express how much I loved that child.  Part of it is because, when I cleaned the kitchen last night, I remembered how Aviean used to love to “clean” the kitchen with me.  Part of it is because my oldest foster daughter should be telling me about her upcoming college final exams and instead she’s sitting in a jail cell.  Part of it is because loving these children means confronting some terrible memories from my own childhood.  And a big part of it is because, even though these last two years of loving the orphans among me have been harder than I could ever have imagined and even though it will alienate me from the people in my life who just don’t understand it, I still want to love the orphan.

“If I had the chance to go back again,

take a different road, bear a lighter load, tell an easy story…

I would walk away with my yesterdays,

and I would not trade what is broken for beauty only.

Every valley, every bitter chill

made me ready to climb back up the hill.”

Sunrise, Nichole Nordeman

Well, it appears the story isn’t over yet.

I’ve hesitated whether to write about this or not, even though the information is now public record. Last week, in a run-down gas station a couple of counties away, my former foster daughter was arrested and charged with a felony.

I was sitting on my couch editing photos when I got the first call. It was a collect call and I could hear her stating her name through sobs but, every time I told the operator I would accept the charges, the line would go dead. After four of these calls, I typed the number into a search engine and discovered that the call was coming from a jail. I threw a sweatshirt on, slipped into my flip flops and drove straight to the police station.

I was able to speak with her via phone that evening but I decided that I should wait until the next morning to try to see her in person. This past Sunday morning, as my neighbors were dressing for church, I started the 45 minute drive towards the jail where my foster daughter was waiting.

I had a lot of reasons why I shouldn’t go and, to be honest, only one reason why I did go: to tell her in person that I am not going to bail her out as she had requested the night before. It was one of those heartbreaking conversations where you walk out of the building feeling every emotion known to mankind: anger, disappointment, regret.

Since that moment, I haven’t had too many “feelings” about it, though. I’ve been too busy taking care of the practical things, the mess left for me to clean up. You see, I’ve never mentioned this but, when my foster daughter turned 18 and was required by law to move out of my home, I co-signed for her to move into a small apartment about 27 feet from my front door. Likewise, I co-signed on her utilities as well. I gave her a bed, bought sheets for it and helped her set up life only a few feet away from where her son slept each night. DCS says you can’t keep living in my house? No problem; we’ll put you next door so you can still be a part of your son’s life everyday. It was, in my mind, a set-up for success.

I had already started the process of having my name removed as co-signer about a week before she was arrested but, unfortunately, I now face a much harder task as I am now legally responsible for the apartment and the utilities. I’ve talked with DCS, the landlord and even consulted a lawyer as I try to figure out what steps to take next as it appears my foster daughter will remain in jail for the next two months as she awaits her sentencing hearing. Right now, it looks like I need to get access to the apartment, clear her belongings out and find a new tenant so I’m not left paying her rent and mine next month. Tomorrow I’m going to go pay the utilities bill she didn’t bother paying last month and then I suppose it will be time to start packing her things into boxes and figuring out a place to store them.

I don’t know whets happening in that jail cell tonight, but I’d take a bet that my foster daughter is probably learning some lessons the hard way tonight.

As it turns out, so am I.

Yesterday, on my lunch break, I went by my foster care agency’s office to drop off the last of Mr. Four Year Old’s belongings.

I’ve never explained this on the blog before but I am (I suppose that should be was) a therapeutic foster parent.  What this basically means is that instead of going directly through DCS and taking in the “regular” children put into foster care, I was trained to take in Level Two children — that is, children that face greater difficulties due to exposures to substances, severe abuse, etc.  Because I was trained for these unique type of children, I was licensed through a private agency that was contracted with DCS to take on these more difficult cases.

Once I got into the back area of my foster care agency, I met up with the case worker that worked on both Miss Seventeen and Mr. Four Year Old’s cases.  I gave her the clothing and toys that hadn’t been taken the night he left and then she and I talked for a bit about how he is doing in his new foster home.  She then asked me how I was doing, which is a rarity in foster care.  You might be surprised to know how very little foster care support there is for the actual foster parents.  I now understand a lot more about the statistic that shows that over 80% of foster parents quit by the end of their first six months of fostering.  Foster care agencies, or at least the agency I worked with, have got to start caring about their foster parents and seeing them as more than just a number of available beds for the kids that got put into the system the night before when CPS raided a meth house.

As I was leaving the agency’s office, I stepped into the elevator and saw another of my case workers, who worked with me on Miss Fourteen’s case, holding a box.  We said hello to each other and then, feeling like the elephant was trapped in the elevator with us, I blurted out “Did you know I’m closing my home?”  Almost immediately, she looked me dead in the eyes and replied “Did you know I’m quitting?”

She went on to explain that the job had consumed her and that she just couldn’t take it anymore.  I asked her what was next for her and, with a sad smile, she told me that she wanted to go home and hibernate until winter was over.  In those few short sentences, I understood exactly how she felt.  The job of working with abused and neglected children, whether as their case worker or their foster parent, does consume you.

It also breaks you.

I think I made the wrong decision with Mr. Four Year Old.  I think I should have kept him, that I shouldn’t have called the office that chilly Wednesday afternoon and told them I couldn’t do it anymore.  I think I should have kept going and kept fighting for what was best for that child, no matter what hell his mother put me through.  I think he should have stayed in my home, where he at least had some familiarity.  He was beginning to love me and, maybe more importantly, like me.  In fact, the day he left my home, he ran to me as soon as I walked into the daycare, threw himself in my arms and loudly proclaimed “I like you, Annie Beff!”

And then I drove him to my house so a couple of case workers could come collect him and his belongings and take him to the third foster care home of his short life.

In the days since he left, I have searched my heart about whether I made the right decision or not.  There are moments when I’m certain that I did what was best for me and him in protecting myself and having him sent to a county where he can be safe, too.  There are other moments when I’m certain that I have made a terrible mistake, that I’m a quitter who gives up after getting the run around from a rebellious teen mom.  I don’t know which feeling is correct.  A part of me wants to think that I failed that child, but a wiser part of me can’t help but think that the system failed this child.  Had things been a little different — his mom kept in therapeutic services for longer, me being given more support in dealing with the stress of dealing with birth parents, etc. — things might look different tonight.  I don’t think the blame belongs to one specific person; I think it’s just the result you get when you’re dealing with a system trying to take care of thousands of foster children in the state of Tennessee alone.  The system is broken.

And the people in it trying to fix it — like me and the case worker who is quitting — are getting broken, too.

I’m still here.

– — –

Here is what I’m doing:

packing the rest of Mr. Four Year Old’s things

(talk about a heartbreaking task)

catching up at work

(I took a few much-needed vacation days)

missing my boyfriend

(he just left after being here for ten days)

editing six photography sessions

(bride, bride, bride, engagement, bride, engagement)

having lots of nightmares

(fostering, fab five, loss)

giving extra love to Snuggles and Cuddles

(it’s embarrassing how much I love those two animals)

and just being present in the moment.

– — –

I will be back very soon.

This whole not blogging thing is for the birds

and I am not a bird.