Recently the kind folks over at America Adopts invited me to compose a guest blog for their site. Super, super cool! I’m touched by the invite to offer another voice and perspective on adoption, particularly older child adoption. Thanks for the opportunity to share!
Author Archives: AdoptiveBlackMom
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Grabbing Happy
This week was a good week for us. Despite a few run ins that upon reflection seem more normal than not, I think we had a good week. We had fun. We laughed. We did high school orientation. We managed Yappy, who has managed to break out of every containment system I have dreamt up for him; he’s a little Houdini. We’ve had a good week.
So I wasn’t ready for yesterday, which was my own fault.
Hope said how depressed she was, how things seemed despairing, how having hope and a positive outlook was not a useful endeavor because happiness was fleeting. Hope is happy to have been adopted, and she loves me and our little family, but this is probably the last great thing that will happen to her and it’s already happened. The adoption is in the past and now we’re just living, so the happy event passed and while it created a permanent situation, the happy surrounding it is not sustainable and in fact, it also has passed.
And just like that I was forced to pick apart the real meaning of happiness. I mean, I had to think about what it meant to me and what I want it to mean for Hope.
I have to regularly sit down, take a moment and consider my own happiness. Am I happy? Some hours of each day I am happy. Some days of each month I am happy. Some months of each year I am happy, and some years in each decade I am happy.
I would like to think I am more happy than not.
I do take a few breaths these days and ask am I happy. I have just about everything I ever thought I wanted. I have nice list of accomplishments professionally and academically. I have great friends and family. I am a mom. I have someone in my life who loves me and whom I love very much. I’m comfortable, even with the challenges. Yeah, I’m happy.
But you know when you’re slugging through heavy stuff, you know during the thick of it, it’s easy to say you’re not happy and you maybe really aren’t happy. And with good reason.
But you still tend to have hope that happy comes back right?
Apparently Hope doesn’t have hope that happy comes back.
To hear her tell it, she has tried that brand of hope and “maybe next time it will be different,” but for so many next times it wasn’t different. Bad things happened and more bad things followed. Imagining it sounds so spirit crushing to know that there is no faith there. I’m not even talking about churchy faith, but just faith that there’s something different out there.
It’s also hard hearing that having permanence hasn’t challenged that thinking at all. More good things than bad things have happened in the last year. But there’s 12 years of crap to contend with; 12 years of data that show it doesn’t pay to have hope that happy will show up.
It’s going to take a long, long time to help her learn to create happy. I tried to explain that considering happy as things always go well, that you always get your way or whatever you want will not get you there. It’s the collection of experiences, memories, and the value that you assign them in the grand scheme of things that help you reframe and refocus on happy. It’s not easy to learn that.
I am afraid that I will fail to teach her, but I can’t imagine a life without hope that happy is within striking distance.
Despite the fear of failure, I see her setting goals. I see her caring. I see her enjoying things. I know that happy is right there if she chooses to see it and chooses to grab it.
Surfboards and Whatnot
Lots of snow days and cold weather have lead to lots of reflection and lesson learning this week. Oh and a ton of laughs.
Parents have lots of ‘splaining to do. In the year that Hope has been here I’ve had to break down song lyrics for her because it was clear that my blissfully naive daughter had no clue what the devil she was saying, often in public, often at a fairly loud volume. I made a strategic mistake last year not breaking down what a “surfboard” is in the context of Beyonce’s Drunk in Love song. Quiet as kept, it amused me. Tonight she was on speaker phone with a friend and started singing “surfboard” and my fun was over. I had to explain. She was peeved that I didn’t say something before. It was kinda hilarious. Um, it was really hilarious. #surfboard
I also had to explain what the Kama Sutra is this week thanks to some song lyrics. It was hilarious.
Because I’m brutally honest, we can talk about errrthang. I really am proud of the fact that Hope asks me all kinds of serious, important questions. It’s true what they say about kids talking during car rides. We have covered some serious ground in the car. And honestly I wasn’t ready for 97% of the questions she has asked during the last year. We’ve talked sex (in such detail that I took to my bed with a nerve pill in hand afterward), relationships, who we like, who we don’t, how we feel about social issues, religion, politics, race, sexuality and on and on.
I promised Hope when we met that I would always kick it to her straight, and I do. I’m clear about word choice, concepts, metaphors, context, as much as I can make perfectly plain, I do. For opinionated conversations, I share mine but give her space to come to her own conclusions. I try to bridge seriousness with humor, and despite not being blessed with any kind of poker face I try really, really hard to not show a lot of emotion other than, “Heeeeyyyyyyy now, I’m glad you asked that, so um…Yeah! Let’s do this!” Now on the inside I might have reactions ranging from “WTF, I ain’t ready” to “LOLOLOLOL” to “Well, now that’s a really pithy question, there.”
I know that’s when we bond the most. That’s the ultimate reward. The bonus? She tells her pals I’m a cool mom because she can ask me anything and I won’t freak out and I will give her an answer even if I have to find one. #whosaboss #coolmom
Teenagers tell time differently than adults do. Seriously, it’s like a time warp that is utterly non-sensical to me. Over the last few weeks Hope has been a party to all kinds of foolishness. Consequently, I have gone on high monitoring alert. NSA ain’t got nothing on me. We had to have a conversation about privacy rights in Casa d’ABM last night.
In Hope’s mind, certain infactions occurring more than 72 hours ago, or there about, are indeed prehistoric. They happened in a completely different era. Consequently she is regularly perplexed as to why I conclude that she has not addressed and/or repaired any trust concerns in that time frame–the same time frame in which she was asleep for approximately 30 hours of the 72.
We’ve discussed it with our therapist. We look at each other with furrowed brows like we not only don’t use same clock, but also speak different languages.
Apparently we do use different clocks and speak different languages.
It’s gotten so crazy that I’ve told her that if she could just go one week without some crazy, then we could talk about my NSA-like behavior.
Her response?
So is that a week without weekends? A week with weekends? Does that includes snow days? If school starts late how does that work in the week count? Are you counting the hours I sleep? What about if I have an all day program on the weekends, where you know I won’t cut up? Do those hours count or do I have to keep it together other hours too?
#WTEntireH #whatkindaclockisthat
Body issues are the devil. I’ve struggled with body issues and self acceptance for most of my life. I have never been skinny; heck I’ve never been slim. At best I’ve been fit because of decent eating and exercise. Years ago I fell into eating disorders trying to deal with my poor vision of self. I can reflect and say now, that the beauty of the last few years just preceding motherhood and settling into it and being over 40 have freed me from that burden.
I try to eat well and I exercise regularly, but listen: I am not about that self-denial life. If I want it, I eat it and I enjoy it. I might need to hit the gym at 8pm to mitigate the splurge but dammit I’m splurging.
And I’m enjoying everything. I recently declared to my doctor that I will NOT diet; I will not self-restrict to excess. I will up exercise in terms of time and intensity, but dammit I now know what this body is capable of and I have a better understanding of the psyche and soul that it houses. I respect that package.
I’m blessed to have arrived here as I begin to raise a teenage girl into a self-loving/self-assured woman. She has so many self-love issues to work through.
I want to model healthy habits for her. I also want her to enjoy dining, to enjoy trying different things. I would love for her to become more active. But most of all I want her to love herself and to appreciate how amazing she is and that the invisible “chubby belly” that she complains about is a figment of her imagination.
I have a chubby belly that I love, so I know what I’m talking about.
Perfection is the enemy of the good. So sayeth Voltaire and cosigned by numerous other philosophers.
Hope and I struggle mightily with the need to be perfect. We both have exacting standards about things we do, things we like, things we wear. We’re quite well suited in that respect. Or not, I guess.
I’m over 40, and I’ve learned to manage this personal flaw a bit over the years. I’ve experienced so many disappointments that I’ve been conditioned to know that perfection is elusive and that expectations should be realistic. I remember when I started my dissertation, someone told me that 1) the dissertation was just a project, 2) it didn’t have to be my life’s work, 3) it didn’t need to be a bigger BHAG–Big Hairy Audacious Goal–than it already was, 4) the project needed to be manageable and finally 5) it did not need to be perfect–it just needed to be approved as solid work by my committee.
It did not need to be perfect. So, then I became a member of #TeamGet’erDone.
Our latest perfection drama has been getting Hope to take care of her own night-time hair care rituals. For the last three weeks I have painstakingly (I’m not joking or exaggerating–my arthritis is killing me) blown out Hope’s hair and flat ironed it. She has been rocking that old school mushroom like the good Deaconess/First Lady, holy and sanctified from that church over in yonder township.
For the first week I put the rollers in at night and I took the rollers out in the morning. Last week I put the rollers in; Hope took them out in the mornings after I convinced her that removing rollers would not result in failure. That took several days of coaxing, but we mastered it by the weekend. This week I was hellbent on getting her to learn to put the rollers in at night herself. Yeah, yeah, those moments could be bonding time, but it really is something at nearly 14 that I need her to add to her skill set tool box.
There were tantrums. Ugh. There was door slamming, audible moaning, throwing of rollers. It was bad. These tantrums served their true purpose–to get me to put the rollers in instead. The first night, I asked her to do one roller, then two, then ultimately three. She fought and threw hissies all dang night and you know how many rollers were set?
Just one.
Before the start of this week’s Add Water and Stir Podcast, I announced that she would be responsible for rolling her hair while Mimi and I were broadcasting. So, during the podcast I hear rollers snapping, grunting, heavy sighs and just random noises related to the roller struggle. #thestrugglewasreal At one point a picture crashed onto the bathroom floor.
After we wrapped the show, I tentatively opened my door. She almost knocked me down with excitement!
“I did it! I did it” #thatswhatsup
She explained that it wasn’t perfect; she told me about her technique and modifications. She was so excited and so proud of herself.
Yes! And frankly, her hair looked fabulous the next day. #flawless
I might have to lock her in the bathroom more often to get some stuff done!
So, that’s what we’re rocking this week. I haven’t been writing about these lessons as much lately, but I’m still learning and loving around these parts. We’re in for more snow today, so I’m planning a Black History Edutainment movie marathon. We’re beginning with Spike Lee’s Malcolm X, in honor of Brother Malcolm’s assassination 50 years ago today.
Peace be upon you.
Adoption Panel in Houston – February 28th
See what Mimi is up to! If you are in H-Town be sure to check this event out if you are considering adoption. Congrats Mimi!
RSVP to https://www.eventbrite.com/e/thinking-about-adoption-panel-and-discussion-tickets-15777595212
Hosted by yours truly – Mimi in partnership with Spaulding for Children.
We will have adoptive parents to speak about their experiences and adoption professionals representing foster-to-adopt, straight adoption from foster care, domestic/private infant adoption and international adoption.
Please repost for folks that may be reading in Houston!
Add Water and Stir- Motherhood is Great, But…
On the 16th episode of Mimi and ABM get real about being new parents!
Parents can really enjoy and adore their kids; however, the day to day juggle of parenting and mothering, specifically, can be challenging. Finding the right place and ranking for kids in our lives is hard and can result in bad hair cuts, dye jobs and buying sneakers from the grocery store. In this episode ABM and Mimi talk about their transitions to motherhood, what they miss most about being footloose and fancy free, and what they are doing to maintain their sense of self as individuals, moms and partners to the people in their lives.
As always, the ladies will dish during the Wine Down on the latest TV dramas, along with sharing shout outs and recommendations!
Got something you want to anonymously vent about your parenting transition? Do it safely here [no worries it goes to ABM’s email] and we’ll shout it out during the show. If you’re unashamed of your vents, drop a comment below, hit ABM up on Facebook or Twitter!
Watch the show on Thursday, February 19th at 9:30pm EST/8:30pm CST on Google Hangouts! Or you can catch the show later on YouTube, Itunes or Stitcher!
Fifty’s Narrative
Ok, so here’s the thing, I never, ever intended to write about Fifty Shades of Grey. Oh the reasons for not writing about it are endless.
I’m a literature snob. I do love a good trashy, low rent beach read from time to time, but my reading tastes lean to works that are more, shall we say artful?
Think pieces are not really my thing either.
Also, I’m not a prude; the sex in the book generally doesn’t bother me, and I’m intrigued by the zillions of interpretive dance think pieces on freaky sex, control based sex, sex abuse, sex assault, feminism, patriarchy, religion, etc that have been launched by the book. My commentary on the sex is simple: as a literary vehicle, the sex in the book is gratuitous, even if it is consensual.
The reviews and promotion of the books and the movie have been pervasive; I mean what could I say that hasn’t already been said? Really?
So much writing over a book that is as close to real literature as a frosted poptart from a box is to a slice of cake from the best cakery you can name? Chile, please.
The truth is that I’m trying to get back into pleasure reading post-dissertation, and my recent trip to St. Kitts [for work!] afforded me a few languid hours of beach time. I left a new book at home by accident and didn’t find anything in the airport worth reading. So in scrolling through my trove of e-books the Fifty series came up. Meh, it’s an easy, mind numbing read. So I reread the first two books previously read while laying on a beach a few islands over a couple of years ago.
And I got to thinking… about Christian and his sexy shenanigans.
Spoiler alert for anyone living under a rock and doesn’t know much about the books: Christian Grey was adopted.
In fact, the whole premise for Christian Grey’s fifty shades of effed up is the neglect and abuse he experienced as a very young child. And although he was adopted by an affluent, loving family, he went on to be a vulnerable teen who was further sexually abused by a family friend. He became a successful entrepreneur who experiences wild mood swings, seeks to control every aspect of his environment, experiences night terrors related to childhood trauma and engages in sexual behavior that some may find deviant, but it allows him to control what happens to him and his body.
So, um, yeah.
Any adoptive parents out there see what I see here once you strip away all the sexy time distractions?
#ifyouveseenitandyouknowitclapyourhands
#clapclap
Hey, I don’t know what’s going on in your house, but as I reread the first book I thought, on a much smaller scale, I see some of these behaviors with Hope. Yeah, I compared Hope to Christian Grey, don’t get your drawers in a bunch! #followmenow
Mood swings? Check.
Fear for safety? Check, but less so now.
Night terrors? Check, still have them occasionally.
Socially vulnerable? Check.
Full of shame? Check.
Control freak? Check.
Presence of some really hard limits? Oh yeah, triple check.
In fact over the last week I’ve been using a hard/soft limit/safe word framework for sorting through what Hope and I work through. We have hard limits–sooo hard they feel like emotional granite. I’ve told the therapist what they are; I’ve encouraged Hope to discuss them, but nope. Not going to happen. She ain’t budging anytime soon.
I know when to push the soft limits now, and I know the safe words to soothe her and to make her relax a bit.
Troubled first families, adoption, childhood trauma and its lingering effects are major explanatory drivers for Christian’s behavior in this series, and I haven’t really seen anyone talk about it. Really…are we so hopped up about the sex in the book that folks missed these elements? I mean, It’s not until the later books in the series that Christian’s adoption narrative gets a bit more attention and his early abuse is really cast as the reason for his behavior, but the groundwork for this narrative is firmly laid in the first book.
As I had this epiphany about the storyline, I found myself questioning E.L. James’ use of adoption as this narrative thread through the books. Why don’t interviewers ask her about it? Why aren’t there think pieces about adoption narratives as literary tools? I wonder if James thinks that adopting an older child just leads to this kinda thing? I mean…might this inadvertently reinforce that older adoptees are some how broken? Or does it make folks think that this isn’t the picture of dealing with the drama of childhood trauma? Did she make Christian a poster kid for vulnerable, traumatized kids only to then paint him as somehow exceptional because this just doesn’t really happen with “truly committed” adoptive families?
So, I saw Fifty Shades through a lens that I didn’t have about 3 years ago. I see Christian for what he is, someone still fighting the struggle to heal from the fifty effed up things that happened to him. I wonder how adoptees feel about this storyline? I wonder how other adoptive parents feel about it? It gives me fifty shades of feelings that are hard to parse out and describe. It’s uncomfortable because purely focusing on some of Christian’s emotional capacity issues makes the book story plausible.
My daughter came to me emotionally much younger than her chronological years. Hope struggles with the long term effects of childhood trauma. She didn’t want to be touched at all when she first came home. Some soothing behaviors were socially awkward at best, offensive at worst. She works hard at healing. We work hard at healing.
It’s hard seeing some of your story in the backstory of a book like Fifty. It’s also hard knowing how hard the child and parents are working to get to some sort of normal, because it doesn’t happen automatically at placement or finalization. It’s hard seeing a characterization that all of the work might still lead to adult behaviors that give people the willies and make them write think pieces about your sexual proclivities.
I find myself wanting to sit down and have a drink with Christian and his adoptive parents. Hey what therapies did you try? What behaviors were the most challenging? Mom, how did you not know your bestie was getting it in with your son? How did you manage? What would you do differently? You had resources for all kinds of stuff, but did you have the emotional support you needed?
I have so many questions about Christian’s life and healing. 99 questions and not one about sex.
Doing This
At least once a day I sit around and wonder, “What the heck am I doing?” OK, really, there’s usually some sort of full on expletive in place of “heck,” but I digress.
Because Hope and I often surf from one crisis to another, the mundane often feels so elusive to us. You know, I try to maintain key daily routines but still I’m often wondering is this crisis thing just our normal?
For how long?
Forever? #Outkast
When the crises cease, will Hope and I even know how to go forward without a bunch of drama? Who knows.
In the meantime, what’s this mom to do? #sigh
We are paddling on a log wave crisis right now, and we’re in the midst of a short lull. It’s allowed me to focus on just trying to maintain a safe, loving place for us–her and me. I don’t feel like I get to intentionally focus on that much with everything always on DEFCON 1. This past week was a close to normal as I feel like we’re going to get for the foreseeable future.
And I probably didn’t do anything special but try a little harder to just practice chillin’.
I listened. We are deep, deep I say, into the first love around here. Ugh. It. Is. Torture. And I’d like to put this little punk under the wheel of my car and make him into a Lifetime Movie that doesn’t end well for him. I’ve given consistent messaging about self-worth and self-respect, but mostly I’ve shut my pie-hole and listened.
Holy Homeboy I’m tired of hearing about this boy and his shenanigans. Tie-erd, I say. But the more I stayed silent, the more Hope talked about her emotional struggles with the epicness of the heart crushing first love. I wish she could articulate like this about her other struggles. But Hope talked and talked. And she was happy to talk. And I managed to be some kind of lamp post on her raggedy road to middle school love.
Side Note: Boyfriend betta be glad that Elihu lurks with a level head…he’s mad protective, but bless him, he prays on the regular to keep a level head. I however, do not, subscribe to such discipline, which is why I will be at the school recklessly eyeballing this punk during band class this week.
I helped her cook. She got some new cookbooks for Christmas, so Hope chose a dinner menu; I bought the necessary ingredients. I played sous chef as she attempted to make her first potato soup, and I helped her fix it when the recipe revealed itself to not provide the best outcome (milk soup with potato lumps?). We avoided a kitchen meltdown, learned about improvisation, and had a lovely dinner with good chatter (see me listening above).
I did her hair. Hope has mostly wanted to wear her hair in twists this last year. She wants her hair to grow long, really long.
Recently she asked me to take down her twists, blow her hair out and flat iron it.
And I did.
On my birthday. #dammit
It took 4+ agonizing hours.
Did I mention this was on *my* birthday?
My feet hurt, my legs hurt, I hurt.
But she was thrilled with her long, bouncy hair. Nevermind that her hair needs to be trimmed and shaped. Nevermind that she was serving first lady of Greater Mt. Zion-Calvary-Horeb/United/AME/Pentecostal/COGIC/Baptist/High Baptist (with gloves on the ushers)/Potter’s House/Temple with Rev. Dr. Bishop Jerome presiding realness; all she needed was a church hat and a doily to toss across her knees. #lawdhafmercy
She was so happy. Absurdly happy. Some kid at school told her she looked like a Black Marilyn Monroe. #idiedlaughing
And I’ll do it all again this week. Fun times (#sideeye); I’m taking some ibuprofen this time and putting that round brush to work. #beenwatchingdominicanyoutubevideos
Next week is back to curly twist outs.
I cut her some slack. I gave her some space. I let her be sad. I gently reminded her of her chores. When wacky stuff turned up on the random cell phone check, I didn’t flip out. I gave her lots of hugs. I just thought about all the stuff she’s got floating around in her head, and I cut her some slack.
And we’re better for it.
Parenting isn’t easy, and despite what some folks say, not every day is the best day of your life. #realtalk There are some really crappy days along the way. But we’re doing this. Day by day, step by step.
We’re doing this.
Add Water and Stir: Adoption Records & Documentation
The Podcast!
On the next episode of Add Water and Stir, ABM and Mimi explore issues related to adoption records and documentation. The amount of paper involved in adoption seems endless. Once you plow through one stack of records or documents, another pile awaits. If you thought that all of the paperwork drama ends after finalization, well, you might miss some important things about finalization documents and what they say and mean.
Recently the Add Water hosts noticed posts on Facebook support groups and blogs about finalization practices that produce documents that scrub the existence of the first family. Adoptive parents and adoptees express a continuum of emotions about revised birth certificates that suggest the adoptive mother gave birth to the child. Some aren’t bothered by it, while others are weirded out by having a document that says they gave birth when they did not or were birthed by folks that did not birth them at all! Post finalization documents can also be emotionally messy.
When coupled with various limitations on adoptees’ ability to obtain their own personal information, post-finalization, revisionist documentation can result in a mimicry of the lost histories of the African American experience. Tracing lineage for African Americans can be particularly challenging given how we were counted as property rather than persons up until the end of the American Civil War. Sounds heavy and messy right? Yeah, it can be.
So join us tomorrow night on Google Hangouts to chat about documentation at 9pm EST/8pm CST! You can also catch us after the show on our YouTube Page, Itunes and Stitcher!
Have some show thoughts? Feel free to drop ABM a line at adoptiveblackmom@gmail.com or Tweet her at @adoptiveblkmom!
Add Water and Stir: The Lost Freestyle File!
On the fourteenth episode of Add Water and Stir, Mimi and ABM decide to throw caution to the wind and just freestyle an episode! They give updates on the teen and the toddler and dish on some articles of interest about parenting from across the web.
The ladies chat about how parents relish the opportunity to engage in the most rote daily activities; who knew going to grab a coffee could spark such excitement. All the excitement is counterbalanced with the need for thoughtfulness in teaching kids about race and the implications of color-blindness.
As usual, ABM and Mimi dish during the Wine Down about the Real Housewives of Atlanta and Married at First Sight; they also kick around catching up on new show, Empire.
Articles of Interest
10 Boring Things that Moms Find Awesome
Am I a Racist? I Don’t See Dead People, but I do See Color
Where you can find us:
The Add Water and Stir Podcast Page
Itunes and Stitcher!
Looking Forward, Looking Back
Last week Hope and I celebrated her placement with me one year ago. I read other blogs in which I was cautioned to not expect her to want to celebrate what was a rough transition for us. I started to let it ride, but then thought better of it. I mentioned it. She smiled. Hope was surprised a year had passed already.
So, we did dinner at the fancy burger place nearby and settled in watching tv. Nice low key and easy. Maybe we’ll do something special to observe our finalization date, maybe, maybe not.
Adoption is tough. Adoption of older kids who have lived a lifetime before meeting you is rough, tough and awesome. It’s all awesome, really, somewhere in there, but make no mistake, it’s rough and it’s tough too.
Since the new year, I’ve been working on getting some of my parenting swagger back. I’ve learned a lot this last year, but I have so much more to learn. Parenting Hope is…sigh…well, I suppose it depends on the day.
We have come so far, but the tentacles of that previous life are always threatening to pull her back in and drag me with it.
I see the impact of neglect in how she engages me sometimes. I see her easing in to this life with me evidenced by her low desire to care for herself in some ways; she wants me to take care of her, almost baby-like at times. I see her joy in having a mom to talk girly stuff with. I see the social struggles that come with a lower emotional age and her Saraha-like thirst for attention, accepting negative attention in lieu of positive reinforcement of more mature behaviors. I listen to her abuse disclosures, stuff that never made it into the files or were so epically understated that they could be characterized as nearly lies. I see developmental delays revealing themselves as her hard shell softens, and I try to figure out how to balance them with my own academic expectations. I work with her through lingering legal issues from her life before me; decisions that make me question all kinds of things I’ve said believed about the criminal justice system for all of my adult life. I sometimes feel the effects of all the trauma just rolling off of her likes waves in an ocean.
Yeah, my therapist says it’s secondary trauma. Nice…not really. It sucks.
Sometimes all of the messy is so clear and evident; other times I’m just hanging on for dear life moving from one crisis to another.
I don’t cry so much now, but I do cry. I fell out of praying for a few weeks not long ago; I just was tired, I was (am) still pissed about how my church treated us.. Didn’t really lose my way, but just really couldn’t say anything to the Holy Homeboy without being furious that the space I felt safe in was no longer safe.
As we mark a year together, it’s a strange time, trying to figure out what the future looks like. Older child adoption is special; there’s something really, really different about showing up with a teenager who is taller than you when just last week you didn’t have one. To some degree we are open about our story; sometimes less so. Hope and I appreciate the ability and choice to just blend in and be mistaken for biological family. We like to give each other knowing looks when it happens.
We’re considered a success story. I’m not sure I know what that means or how I feel about it. We constantly get requests to use our image on adoption awareness and promotional items. On the one hand, it’s flattering, on the other hand, it makes me wonder if we will be able to maintain our ability to hide in plain sight. We’re comfortable with disclosure now, but what about 6 months or more from now?
Aside from that, I don’t feel like a poster family. We have struggled this year. We’re still standing and we love one another, but success? I guess. We finalized…so there’s that. We haven’t killed each other…so there’s that. My vocal cords from the epic NY’s day meltdown seem to not have sustained permanent damage…so there’s that.
The parenting counselor from my agency told me recently that now that we’ve been together a year, ish is about to get really, real. Dear Holy Homeboy help me.
I worry about my own attachment with my daughter. I wonder (full of guilt just thinking it) if I made the right choices. I ponder what my life would be like, now, 2 years in to this adoption journey if I had made different choices. I wonder what new trauma will surface next week, and whether my mouth guard will survive the pressure when I am grinding my teeth trying to maintain my composure.
It’s crazy that it’s been a year already. I look forward to many more years, but that anticipation is mixed with some fear and anxiety probably from both of us. This ain’t easy, but she is worth it. We’re worth it.
AdoptiveBlackMom 