Post-Placement Blues

The daily cycle of anxiety and relief, meltdowns and recoveries is really just…a lot.  My birthday was actually meltdown free, but as someone commented on that blogpost, the angst about whether it would be meltdown free really kind of ruined it.  It wasn’t that anything bad happened at all.  In fact, Hope fixed my breakfast (brought me my yogurt and a spoon and poured my juice); got ready for church without incident (other than being glacially slow, but I’ve come to be happy with the fact that she’s starting to enjoy going); did not throw a tantrum when I chose a place for lunch where she got to try some bison ribs, and she read to me (more Silverstein–ick, but it was a lovely gesture).

Actually it was a nice day.   But I was/am still blue.

As usual, I’m just a grab bag of emotions.  It’s like the worst PMS I’ve ever experienced.  I’m happy about going back to work and embracing that part of my identity, but I’m sad because there was something cozy about being with Hope during the day.

I love that she calls me mom all the time now; and when she calls me mom in exasperated tween-speak it annoys the ish out of me.  I am also amused that apparently adoptive mom’s, like our bio-colleagues, instantly gain superpowers like hearing through walls and making things like laundry appear like magic.  She has called me no less than 9 times from her bedroom in the span of drafting these couple of paragraphs.  I also seem to be suffering from some odd, likely fatigue induced, brain fog.  Just can’t seem to get my brain to crystalize much of anything right now.

The Furry One has broken family ranks and gone wolf-rogue.  I still maintain he would never bite, he’s much to passive aggressive for that.  No.  Yesterday, The Furry One waited until I and Hope were in her room working on homework, entered, stood in the middle of her new pink fluffy area rug, lifted his leg and let ‘er rip.

Stunned and shocked, I removed the dog, got the rug, put it in the shower to hose it down (acrylic, Ikea rug), baking soda it and then put it out on the balcony to air out and dry.  Meanwhile, Hope finally had evidence to back up her righteous wailing about how The Furry One doesn’t like her.

Turns out, she’s right.  He doesn’t.  But I still don’t believe he tried to bite her.  This passive aggressive BS is way more his speed.

Sigh.

This was followed by a series of math homework meltdowns for her, a bridesmaid’s dress meltdown for me (fitting did not go well), a herd of social workers, former fosters, former therapists, the new social security caseworker and Hope’s new band teacher all calling/emailing/texting in a 3 minute window.  It was like being in an electronic sold out hockey game of rowdiness—just too much stimulation.  So after homework was done and the dress meltdown was shelved until today for resolution and Hope was in bed, I spent the better part of an hour, updating everyone on the going ons in my and Hope’s life.  I had to, right?  Because well all these people get to sign all those papers that say I get to keep my kid. Well, a bunch of them do anyway.

Then I spent 20 minutes in tears thinking of all the stupid things I’d done/tried/effed up at while attempting to parent over the last few days.  Yeah, several moments of, “Well, how’d that workout for you?  Not so good right?”  Fortunately, Hope is more resilient than me. When I consciously eff up, I apologize, which shocks her.  I tell her how I will do better next time, and then she lets it go, and I continue to silently punish myself until I do something worthy of even greater self-loathing.  I feel like the preacher who secretly beats himself in the Scarlet Letter.  But, wait, wasn’t he beating himself because he got it on with Hester Prynne?  Sigh, I’m not even getting any and am still engaging in this kind of self-loathing.  Awesome.  I don’t even seen an opportunity for that kinda happy sinning on the horizon–despite Hope’s prediction that I’ll marry by the time she’s 16.  Yeah.

Sigh.

So, then I broke out the red solo cup, only to realize that I was down to the last swallow of Baileys.  It wasn’t even a full shot.

Double sigh.  Really?

This morning, Hope brought up the fact that we’re both going through the blues.  Is this a post-placement thing?  It’s on my list of questions to ask around about.  I asked her what we should do about these blues, you know, besides getting drugs.

She said, “Ice cream.”

Is there a Bailey’s ice cream?  Because if there is, she might be right.