Author Archives: AdoptiveBlackMom

About AdoptiveBlackMom

I'm a single Black professional woman living in the DC area. I adopted my now adult daughter in 2014, and this blog chronicles my journey. Feel free to contact me at adoptiveblackmom@gmail.com, on Facebook at Adoptive Black Mom, and on Twitter @adoptiveblkmom. ©www.AdoptiveBlackMom.com, 2013-2025. All rights reserved. (Don't copy my ish without credit!)

July 27, 2014

Away, Away We Go

By AdoptiveBlackMom

OMG, my first week away from Hope! Lots of mixed emotions about being away. I’m really excited about jumping into work and having evenings free. I’m getting a fancy award and Elihu is coming to join me for a couple of kid free days. I’m taking a couple of days to just lounge and rest when I get back. I’m excited. #treatyoself

And I already miss Hope like mad. She’s texted me a dozen times about all manner of things. She’s anxious and excited, but mostly anxious. I know the challenges that exist when she’s anxious, and that makes me anxious.

But somehow it will be ok. It will. In the grand scheme of things it will be good for both of us for lots of reasons. I need this time to try to really get my work mojo back. She needs this time to be with extended family, have some fun and learn to stretch a little bit.

We’ll have some hiccups, but we will survive.

I’ve been thinking about how far we’ve come since I hit the airport yesterday. She’s such a different kid than she was 6 months ago. Despite her anxiety, she’s more confident about her place in this world now. She has a mom and a family. Permanence has created so many opportunities for growth during the last two months.

Each day I see Hope grow a little more; even on the days that are challenging. She asks questions; we have conversations. I see her happy, I see her sad. I see Hope, and somewhere along the way, her realization that I actually see her made a difference. She’s not a number or a statistic or just some sad story anymore. She’s my kid.

Meltdowns don’t look anything like they used to; I mean nothing like they used to. In fact I’m more likely to have a mini meltdown than Hope is. She is increasingly poised. When Hope melts down, she seizes any opportunity to right herself and show what she’s really capable of to everyone around her. This week her camp teacher pulled me aside and just gushed about her and how well-mannered she is, how delightful she is and just complimented me on what an amazing kid she is. I fought to hold back tears because my heart nearly burst; hell, I’m crying right now thinking about it.

And she’s my number one fan. Last week, we ran into Monty Durham from Say Yes to the Dress at the local Starbucks. She didn’t know who he was but she was amused by my little star stricken moment. When we got home I googled him so she could see who he was. She got the idea to google me, and well, my job is at a national organization and so I popped up on google. By Hope’s definition this means her mom is famous. She has told her friends, her camp classmates, camp directors, people at church the therapist, the checkout lady and the bagger at the grocery store and anyone else who will listen that her mom is the bomb.com. It’s nice to know my cool factor has gone up, but beyond that, Hope sees me too. She sees me like I see her.

I realize how much trust capital I’ve earned over the last 6 months, but especially in the last month. I’ve tried to be consistent. I’ve tried to be judicious in creating opportunities for new stuff—recognizing that to some degree it’s all been new. I’ve wiped her tears, watched squeaky band concerts and bad magic tricks; I’ve sat through creaky voice lessons. I’ve done a balloon release in honor of her dad because she needed to have her own ceremony celebrating his life and their relationship, even if it was really, really complicated. I’ve dragged her to church, figured out ways of answering tough theological questions and discussed her desire to be baptized because I’m no longer dragging her to church; she looks forward to going.

When she recently referred to me as “mom,” distinctive from her “birth mom” it all came into focus that we are really doing this family thing. We are really a “we.” It’s a stunning thing in many ways. On Tuesday it will be one year since I first got an email about Hope from my agency as a possible match. It’s hard to believe that she’s mine and I’m hers a year later.

I just talked to Hope and virtually tucked her in. Earlier today I got a few anxious texts, by this evening she was giving me confident updates on The Furry One, who’s dealing with some serious health issues (sad face). The realization that I might have anything to do with this transformation in her is humbling, beyond humbling. She is hands down the most amazing person in my universe. I’m so proud of her. I’m so excited to see what we do next.

I think this trip away marks the beginning of a new chapter for me and Hope. That’s a pretty exciting.

Gosh, this funny smelling Denver air has got me all extra introspective. No really, the contact that I accidentally got walking down the block…so serious!

2 Comments | tags: adoption, Adoption and Emotions, African American Adoption, African American Single Adoptive Mom, Post-Placement Life | posted in Finalization Life

July 22, 2014

Crumbling Towers of Strength

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Don’t forget to log on and catch the next episode of Add Water and Stir on Thursday, July 24 at 10pm EST/9pm CST!

This episode is called Crumbling Towers of Strength. Mimi from the blog ComplicatedMelodi and I will be talking about the “Strong Black (or any other color for that matter) Woman” complex that keeps women from practicing critical self-care until it is too late. This complex is centered around the fallacies that we don’t need help, we don’t do therapy for ourselves and the absurd need to prove that we are strong and have it all under control.

Um…yeah, we do need help; we should do therapy and we really don’t have anything to prove, especially when things might be spiraling out of control. We need to break down some real talk about self-care and adoption.

We’re also going to explore acute situations in which kids are introduced to the foster care system and how these episodes may disproportionately impact families of color and/or poor-low income families. We’re talking about incidents like: “Mom Jailed Because She Let Her 9-Year Old Daughter Play in the Park Unsupervised.” #maybeitreallyiscomplicated

We’ll wrap up with some goofy chatter on pop culture, because, well we think about other more mindless stuff too, and we can’t always focus on the tough stuff.

Join us on Google+ on Thursday night! Click the graphic to RSVP!

The Podcast!

Leave a comment | tags: Add Water & Stir Podcast, adoption, Adoption in Communities of Color, Adoption Podcasts, African American Adoption | posted in Add Water & Stir Podcast

July 20, 2014

Sunday Fun Day

By AdoptiveBlackMom

I hope a time comes when Sundays really become fun days for me and Hope. She’s fine, but I think I get a preemptive start on the angst of getting back into the routine of the week day. I’m finding the routine, exhausting and rigid as it maybe, gives me something to look forward to and to gripe about for that matter. Saturdays I usually have activities for us to do which get us out of the house to do something engaging and fun. Sundays we have church and stuff that has to get done to make sure the week goes smoothly, aka Mom chores. I find myself getting cranky and sometimes oddly resentful that she continues to lounge about with no inkling of initiative to help. I’m guessing that has more to do with being 13 and less to do with being adopted.

Today I hit the Red Box, picked up a movie for her and am taking my weekly time out in my room, catching up on professional work and reflecting on the week. So, here’s what’s on my mind this week.

___________

Hope’s family…well, really I don’t know what to say. Hope’s family sent me a few things this week. They sent a few pictures of her and her dad when she was young, several pictures of her dad and grandmother and his funeral program. Once I had them in hand, I decided not to wait to tell Hope all that has happened in the background these last few weeks. She was shocked as I imagined. Her feelings about her family are complicated. We talked a bit about it then, but decided to really focus our therapy session on all the family stuff.

Turns out she was only about 10% happy they found us and about 90% pissed about why now, after everything she’s been through in the last five years. Oh my sweet girl was angry, but instead of lashing out she just broke down and cried and cried. She talked a lot, and she even talked about how much stronger she is now to use her words to articulate what she was feeling. She’s been holding so much in about her birth parents and it all came spilling out, so much anger and so much hurt. She is so happy to have the mementos of her dad; they are key to her healing. We both know that now. But whether she will really reach back to her father’s family? Well, she doesn’t seem to be terribly interested in doing that. I imagine this might change at some point, but for now seems like the immediate family crisis is over.

I was oh too happy to graciously let them know that it would likely be awhile before they heard from us. I’ll send them a virtual Christmas card if nothing has changed by then.

Hearing about foster care from a former foster kid is hard. Through blogging, I’ve been blessed to meet such wonderful folks who foster children. I’ve also kept in touch and bonded with Hope’s final foster family. But Hope’s experiences with foster care sound like an incredibly choppy sea. The foster family she was placed with after she came into custody left an indelible mark with her. Given her trauma, I have no idea whether she would have ever found them acceptable, but her view of how she was treated, how insensitive they were to her overwhelming grief, how she was treated compared to other foster children in the home…she’s still angry and still bitter. She calls the members of the family by name and remembers every perceived slight.

It doesn’t matter whether her memories are true or not, they are true for her. I try to be empathetic. She remembers this family and others like it more than she remembers the folks who were very kind towards her. She talks about those folks too, but her focus on the negative always brings her back to people who were, in her mind, less than kind and compassionate.

It’s hard. So much of her grief is also wrapped up in her foster care experiences, too. All of it is so entwined. I am trying to help her focus on the positive people who have been there throughout the process, but it really seems hard for her to turn things around to focus on those folks.

Therapy works. It really does, of course it feels like 1 good session for every 4-6 or even 8 crappy sessions. When you do get to that one session though, you realize that perhaps the other sessions were productive in subtle ways. I’m glad that I encouraged Hope to put a pin in all the family stuff until we could talk about it with Absurdly Hot Therapist. She was ready and clearly had thought about things in a way that made her really ready to talk.

Things poured out of her. We ended up going long because things were still just gushing out of her. Lots of emotional stuff. She was deliberate about word choice—for the first time she referred to her birth mother as her “birth mother.” She made a point of pointing to me and saying *this* is my mom. At one point me, Hope and AHT were all crying.

On the way to the car afterwards, she said, I’ve been waiting to let out that stuff for years.

Amen to that, Hope.

We then went and bought a small chocolate cake, because well, when you finally get some ish off your chest, you should celebrate and that means cake (with a side of fried chicken).

Prioritizing self-care is essential. I tried on suiting slacks this week and had an awful reality check. Ick.

Must. Prioritize. Self-care.

So, I joined a new 24 hour gym this week and am making a commitment to workout 30 hours during the next 30 days. That’s an hour a day. I’ve booked a long term relationship with the magic sitter for alternating Fridays and Saturdays until mid-October. My sitter service is working on finding someone for a weeknight as well so I can work late, take in a happy hour or just sit in my car for a couple of hours.

___________

This week I leave for my first lengthy business trip since Hope arrived. I’ve had a couple of overnights, but never 5 days away. I’m really nervous and excited. I’m hoping it all works out well.

6 Comments | tags: Adopotion, Adoption and Bio Families, Adoption and Emotional Health, Adoption Emotions, Adoption Lessons Learned, African American Adoption | posted in Dealing with the Past, Finalization Life, Lessons Learned

July 16, 2014

The Only One

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Hope is currently in a day camp at local animal shelter. She’s been looking forward to this week of camp for months, and really is thriving there. She keeps asking can we adopt some critters. The answer is always no. No. Did I mention the answer is no? The Furry One is the center of the animal universe in Casa d’ABM.

This camp has triggered some difficult conversations about race between Hope and me. Hope is the only brown kid at the camp. #oneofthesekidsisdoingherownthing The ONLY one. We talked about it the first day, how did she feel about being the only one, I wondered. For the record, she brought it up first, no seeds planted here.

Hope really has internalized some unambiguous ideas about how Black folks behave; she wasn’t surprised that she was the only one. I hear a lot of “Black folks don’t do this,” or “Black folks do this” from her. It really is black or white with her. Her declarations about how we act are usually a negative characterization, i.e. “Black folks do all the stealing.” It stings every time I hear it. I hate the sense of self-hate that it implies; because Black folks don’t do certain things, she thinks that some of her opportunities are limited.

She thinks that as an educated Black woman I’m different, not the norm. I might as well be a rare bird. She’s actually told me that I wasn’t really Black because I didn’t act Black enough by any measure. Yes, she actually revoked my Black people membership card.

#membershiprevoked

She rationalized that she ended up at her dream camp because her new mom was White enough to support her going.

Sigh. Damn, damn, damn.

I was taught all the good stuff about being Black and being descendants of African kings and queens, and I was brought up in an environment where Black History Month was all year long. I understood early that when I walked into a space, I brought a community of people with me; I had to represent by putting my best foot forward. I’ve been called Oreo and called out for acting White, and while it hurt from an adolescent social angle, it didn’t matter because I was making sure I carried myself in a way that showed White folks that people who look like me can get ‘er done. Pressure? Yeah, but pressure gladly shouldered—I’m a descendant of kings and queens remember? #KingdomofZamunda #ComingtoAmerica

But Hope’s racial development took a different trajectory. Black history was Tupac and Biggie. She’s been left to sort out her understanding based on what she’s seen Black and White folks do in her 13 years and in her limited environment. The separation and characterizations of racial groups is sharp with her.

It’s a struggle to figure out how to course correct some of this, and sometimes it’s like we’re not even speaking the same language. I want to teach her that we Black folks can do whatever we aspire to do, and we don’t surrender our Blackness to do any of it. There’s a need to learn to code switch in our culture in order to move from surviving to thriving. There’s a need to cultivate an image and narrative about whom and what Black folks are and that we, like any other racial group, span a pretty diverse group of folks and behaviors. Behaviors aren’t racial, they transcend race. Trifling folks will be trifling irrespective of race. Nose to the grindstone folks who are working towards something meaningful go beyond racial and cultural dimensions.

But, uh, supporting positive racial development at 13 is so messy. Some folks would rather embrace a color-blind paradigm. I reject this; I think it’s naive and it’s easy to say sure we don’t see things but the research about racial attribution, discrimination and marginalization is overwhelming in education (as early as toddlers–racism is learned behavior) on through the life-span. I want to teach her to own her color, but not to feel limited by small, biased bit of data she has that shapes what she thinks her cocoa brown skin means for her life.

The dichotomy of race in this camp experience comes up as a part of our daily chatter. This morning she pointed out how some girls thought she was hilarious. Hope is a funny girl, she uses humor excessively, almost like performance therapy, to gain acceptance with peers. She has a hard time. Given our discussions, I probed—I was concerned about inadvertently building the image as the class clown…the Black class clown. I already worried that such an image could be, and is often, aligned with the class troublemaker, instigator and so on (lots of data on this too). I want her to be herself, but I worried about the pressure of being the only one, trying to make friends and be socially acceptable.I worried that if she acted out, would folks remember that the Black girl had a meltdown or if Hope–personalized and personified–had a meltdown.

It may sound like I have little faith in anyone else in the camp—oh I’ll admit to being suspect because I don’t know them. But I also know that Hope is “comfortable” with being Black and she’s comfortable with a paradigm in which being really Black doesn’t have to be about anything more than spitting rhymes on a corner while sipping a forty. She only kind of got my concern.. Somehow, I think we’ll have many future opportunities to wrestle with this topic. We’ve got a big internal Black folk, culture clash going on around these parts. Fun times. #notreally

Apparently, racial development is a rock to kick over in same race adoptions as well. Silly me to assume I had dodged that bullet.

15 Comments | tags: adoption, Adoption & Racial Development, Adoption Stories, African American Adoption, African American Single Adoptive Mom, Same-Race Adoptions | posted in Finalization Life, Other Stuff

July 13, 2014

See, What Had Happened Was…

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Um, so, I, um, kinda got into a *thing* at the Bruno Mars concert. Yeah, I did. Some inebriated woman started pushing and shoving folks when she was confronted about being in the wrong seat in our row. It happened so fast and the next thing I know, this 50-something, stumbling drunk woman pushed Hope hard as she was swinging on someone else. Hope, on one of the happiest days of her young life, started to cry because it was going down in the seats next to her while Bruno was getting his Michael Jackson-Prince-James Brown-Elvis on a few rows away.

Awww hells no!

I quickly donned my angry wolf mama face, deftly switched seats with Hope and assessed the situation. I had to hold the lady back from swinging on the dude who was explaining she was in the wrong seat. I leaned over and spoke in her ear, “Hey, settle down, you are a little out of control, get your ish together, take a break.” I let her go, and she spun around and swung on me, and pushed to try to get past me, stopping in front of Hope.

Say what now? Awww double hells naw.

Hope was now in hysterics (God only knows what kind of trauma memories this all triggered); 3 rows of people were trying to get this lady to settle down or exit.

And I pushed her away from my kid. Yeah, I did. And I’d do it again.

Not proud of putting hands on her but she was out of control, and all I could think was that if she swung on me and a full grown man, what would this drunk lady do to my kid?

She, um, flew, kinda, out of the row (I had about 100lbs on her). After a couple more Bruno songs and several complaints filed by people all around us, crazy lady was tossed out of the venue.

Hope was scared and for a while inconsolable. Seatmates all around were so kind, and for a while, when it looked like security was going to let the lady stay, I thought there might be a full on melee (at a dang Bruno Mars concert??? All the crazy concerts I’ve attended and a melee was going to break out at a Bruno Mars concert?)

And then Bruno started singing Hope’s favorite song—Grenade—and she grabbed my hand and we started to sing.

I’d gladly take a grenade for this kid.

It’s been a crazy week, and I haven’t done a lessons learned bit for a while. So, let’s dig in!

_____________________

I now know what heaven looks like. Bruno Mars is Hope’s all time, favorite celebrity. Oh she loves him. She was anxious about the concert, freaking out about what to wear, asking questions galore. I spent an absurd amount of cash on those tickets, but the moment that the curtain went up, the pure ecstasy on her face…really, there aren’t words to describe it all. I can tell you nothing else mattered in that moment. It was better than her arrival, it was actually on some short term level better than finalization. It was better than Disney. It was a snapshot in time that I will take with me to my grave. All I could think was being able to give Hope this very moment, this very experience has just crystalized my concepts of the joy of motherhood. There were moments of just watching her that just seemed like bliss. Heaven must be like that. Sign me up.

In my quest for normalcy, I forget that Hope has developmental problems. My wanton forgetfulness about her social anxieties, random phobias and developmental delays, is no good for us. I can see so much growth in her over the last six months, but I also am aware that it’s hard to see the invisible things that still make her different. Many of her little issues are little and over time may, with love and support, may self-correct. But right now it’s hard to deal with meeting new kids and sometimes acting age appropriately. The OCD behaviors pop and things go off the rails quickly. And you know what? It can be embarrassing for both of us. Even more so now; I feel like others feel like we should be “normal;” I mean we’re finalized, we’re legal, there’s permanency, right? It’s hard sometimes being reminded that we aren’t normal, especially in the presence of others.

Someone once called me territorial when it came to Hope. It wasn’t meant to be a hurtful comment, but I’ve struggled with this characterization for a while now. I tried not to be offended. I understand how it must all look from the outside; maybe it’s true. It’s hard creating a therapeutic home where Hope can be safe trying to heal from years of abuse of various kinds and years in the foster care system. It’s hard creating a space where she can wrestle with the invisible problems privately, where I can wrestle with it all privately too. It’s hard realizing that the addition of a new family member isn’t what folks thought it would be. So yeah, I’m territorial and protective even against some of folks closest to me. It’s hard getting side eyes from people who don’t understand why we stay in or why things go nutty when we go out with other people. Six months in and I jarring reminders about how far we still have to go, while celebrating how far we’ve come, which in reality is so very far. Sometimes it feels like we just can’t win. So I escape to the land of denial.

I’m not sure what’s less fair, ascribing feelings of pressure to be normal to others or wishing so hard that we were actually normal, or putting Hope in positions where her behaviors seem characterized as failure when she’s really doing the best she can. It all kinda sucks.

Single parenting is hard. This isn’t new, but when I’m trying to figure out who a backup will be for pickups or trying to plan for fall business trips, it’s a reminder about how I have to try to line things up far, far in advance because I’m alone. I’m working on getting my team of sitters in place so that I can resume some business travel this fall. I don’t know what role family can/will play in helping out over the long haul. I worry a lot. I worry about money a lot, even though I seem to be financially ok. Sure things are tighter than they used to be, but we’re fine.

I appreciate not having to consult folks on many decisions, but I wish I had someone to consult with on others. I selfishly like not sharing Hope, but see such an awesome kid who would also benefit long term from a positive male role model that I wish I had one for her.

The early need to be “territorial” made it difficult to create close sustainable, safe relationships for me and Hope; the expectations about how things were supposed to be were just too much to live up to. We were both burned and got burned, and we’re still recovering and trying to build trust. Consequently, I don’t reach out to folks I thought I would reach out to. I hope that will change. It’s easy to forget that it’s only been six months, so much has happened.

I’m still depressed. Oh, it’s not as dramatic as it was shortly after placement and during our major crisis in Feb/March, but it’s still there. I manage it. I have gotten better as self-care, mostly in getting time away to just be. I still have lots of room for improvements in taking care of me, though. But often, if I’m honest, the blues are just below the surface. The blues oddly coexist with joy in seeing her earn an award at camp, enjoy a concert and get on with a new friend when social anxiety makes things so hard. I’m delighted by those things, and even though my controlled cries are much less than they used to be, they still happen every few days. I wonder when they will vanish.

_____________________

I am doing well. I’m managing and learning how to ask for help. Of course I have no idea how this coming week is going to go down—why did I agree to a camp that starts at 9:30 and ends at 3:30? Don’t they know people work???

5 Comments | tags: adoption, Adoption and Emotions, Adoption Post Placement Challenges, African American Adoption, Lessons Learned, Post-Placement Life | posted in Finalization Life, Lessons Learned

July 12, 2014

About the Tea

By AdoptiveBlackMom

The latest episode of Add Water and Stir is available! Hey we made it to two episodes!!! Woot, Woot!

In this second episode called, About the Tea: Reading the Data Leaves and Spilling Adoption Tea, ComplicatedMelodi (Mimi) and I chat about recent parenting developments including acquiescing to super sweet grandparents and the emotional upheaval associated with the emergence of biological family. Show highlights include data from the recent US Census Bureau report, Adopted Children and Stepchildren: 2010, telling folks that you are adopting and defining “normal” in adoptive families.

You can find us on YouTube:

Google+: Add Water and Stir with ABM and Mimi

On our podcast page: Add Water and Stir

Shout out to a watcher who let me know my brows were nice! Seeing as I haven’t had them done in like 8 weeks because of business, I needed that! Ha!

If you have some suggestions for future topics, comment below, hit me up on Twitter or send an email!

1 Comment | tags: Add Water & Stir Podcast, adoption, Adoption and Normalcy, Adoption Data, Adoption Podcasts, Adoption Transparency, Adoptive Parenting, adoptive parents, African American Adoption | posted in Add Water & Stir Podcast

July 10, 2014

Add Water and Stir – Episode 2 this Thursday

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Heyyyyy now! 🙂 Catch us on Google+ tonight!

Complicated Melodi

Don’t forget to tune in to the Add Water and Stir podcast with ABM and Mimi, this Thursday, July 10th at 10pm EDT/9pm CDT on Google Hangout! (You can RSVP or just find us live by clicking the link!) Podcasts will also be available on YouTube and our podcast webpage (http://addwaterandstir.libsyn.com/) the day after the hangout.

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2 Comments | posted in Uncategorized

July 8, 2014

Today in Images

By AdoptiveBlackMom

I simply can’t recount the drama of the day in detail. It’s just meh…sometimes you just can’t. So, every now and again I try something different. Here’s today in pictures.

Two hours of sleep after the On the Run concert. I’m too old for this mess.

Then I get this phone call…

When I get to the spot…simmering. I didn’t actually say this, but I thought it. I did give the look though.

And the administrator thinks I’m about to cut up and act a fool because of the events of the morning. Didn’t know me from a can of paint.

No boo, that’s Dr. ABM to you. #respect

After the “Dr” thing, all sorts of privilege turned up and solutions magically appeared.

But I was still about to come undone about what happened. It was serious.

It was going to be on like popcorn.

And our ice maiden alter egos made an appearance.

And after the thaw-ie several hours–we had the heart to heart that didn’t involve me wringing her neck.

I used my communication skills and everything. I also kept my hands firmly at my sides.

And we hugged it out.

But there are some serious consequences in place.

And now red wine…and bad TV.

Don’t forget to check out the second episode of Add Water and Stir–this Thursday night, 10pm EDT/9pm CDT! 🙂

5 Comments | tags: adoption, Adoption Stories, African American Adoption, African American Parenting, African American Single Adoptive Mom, Finalization Life, Tween Parenting | posted in Finalization Life, Tween Parenting

July 8, 2014

Hits, Misses and On The Run

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Hits:

I managed to successfully explain that while Hope’s first impressions of her camp counselor may be valid, first impressions cut both ways. Her counselor didn’t seem impressed either. She got the message and hopefully tomorrow will be a “do over.”

I actually remembered to take her to get a Slurpee that was originally scheduled for Sunday-Funday that turned into Ickday. She was delighted that I remembered and that she got a treat off schedule.

Misses:

I probably could’ve handled the confrontation over adequacy of The Furry One’s walk today. The building concierge called, apologizing for intervening, but thought I should know that Hope stood in one spot to “walk” the dog, right by the back door in violation of the rules and the spirit of walking the dog. I got the call before she even got back to our front door, which she entered with a ready-made story about how The Furry One didn’t want to walk despite her best efforts. Her story was the stuff that guilt is made of. I tried to be gentle, but when she threw down the “Oh, so you don’t believe me?” line I honestly said “Nope.” We then bounced into a bit of a tirade that I could’ve handled better. Meh.

Her latest spasm drama…I have yet to see one spasm, not one. So I have refused to indulge it; which just made Hope dig in further insisting that she was having spasms and that they hurt her and that they were going to kill her. This drama just made me dig in more that I would ignore these imaginary body pulses.

Well, Mary Poppins, our amazing “minder” (sitter is so juvenile, right?), catered to Hope’s sick girl whims while I was out. She pressed pressure points; did several rounds of ice compresses and cooed and coddled. Mary knew that there was nothing wrong with Hope, but she also knew that the best way to treat this “illness” was to give Hope the attention that I refused to give.

I didn’t want to; selfishly, I was happy to head out to see my concert tonight and leave the “I’m dying and you don’t even care” drama behind. On the way home I remembered our bet and how furious Hope was that I was not taking her to see Beyonce and Jay-Z (never mind the semester of a college fund that I spent on Katy Perry and Bruno Mars tickets…). I also remembered that this was the first time I would be out this late and expected her to be in bed when I got home. She just wanted me to “take care of her,” and she defaulted to a bag of tricks that used to work on a bunch of other people—faking being ill for attention.

It wouldn’t have killed me to budge and coddle her a bit before I left. I’ll try to have more patience next time, even if I loathe indulging these behaviors at all.

On The Run

A good friend and I hit the Baltimore edition of the One The Run tour tonight. Great, yet odd concert. Here are my random musings in order of their appearance in my head…

The scenery up in this joint….enough ratchet-piece theater to last me a while.

Jay Z is only here so that Beyonce has someone to do something during her costume changes.

Jay Z’s costume changes only seem to involve a fresh new t-shirt, ball cap, sneaks and a new chain…and maybe a ski mask. Did a stylist get paid for this?

Beyonce makes me think that all weaves should come with a wind machine.

I mean really how many leotards does one girl need?

Oh, a onesie with the butt out…#princediditalready #yawn #yonce

OK, maybe not *all* weaves re: that wind machine comment…. can’t cosign some of the foolishness walking around this stadium. Smh

Oh she does wear pants sometimes. Is that a wedding pantsuit…? There’s a veil. I’m confused.

You have no idea how badly I want to put this dude in front of me on YouTube. Lolol #concertfunnies

Leaving before the finale means accidentally seeing Bey and Jay leaving the venue straight from the stage with a police escort. They must be sweaty. #motorcadejustlikeobama #handsupandwave

Now I’ve got to finish detangling my hair, twist it and grab a couple hours of snooze under the dryer. Why did I decide to wash my hair at 1am?? Tomorrow is going to hurt.

Leave a comment | posted in Finalization Life, Lessons Learned

July 6, 2014

Mommy Time Out

By AdoptiveBlackMom

So, I came unhinged today. Totally hit the wall and had to give myself a time out.

Vacationing with kids, I’m realizing, is a bit stressful. Vacationing with Hope has added layers of anxiety and messiness. I admit to being keyed up most of the time, waiting for, anticipating something to flip our lids. After my threats to leave the mouse trap, honestly she was great, and we had an enjoyable time away. The bugs, while they frightened her, did not trigger a full on meltdown. Hurricane Arthur delayed us by about 6+ hours in getting home, but in the end, we took it all in stride. We headed down to fetch The Furry One and ended up coming home last night.

That’s it. Vacation over. Time to jump back into reality.

But at some point today, I realized that I’m just not okay. I slept late, and the circles under my eyes are lighter than they’ve been in a while. I had great plans to go to church, hit the Costco, maybe take Hope to the library and veg out on the couch for a while. Yeah, but none of that happened. Instead, I became irritable right after breakfast. I was cranky, blue, frustrated and just really should’ve went back to bed and pulled the covers back over my head.

The last few days one of Hope’s family members has just bombarded me with messages about all manner of things. I just haven’t responded. I couldn’t. It was just too much, too soon. One family member sends messages in the middle of the night, midday, whenever. There are pleas with phone numbers and email addresses. Shout outs that she’s praying for us. Did I know she had whatever medical condition? Didn’t I want to know why she couldn’t step in with Hope? The whole family is waiting for information. They are heartbroken, elated, impatient, waiting, oh respectful, but why the devil didn’t you hit me back yet on Facebook? Last night’s midnight message begged me to call the grandmother and there was a lengthy story to go with it. Her message also gave me a head’s up that there was family bickering going on about me and Hope. #jesusbeabrickwallofprivacysettings

I have dug deep into my empathy well and tried to imagine what it must be like to find your family member who was lost to you and now found. I don’t downplay what that must feel like. I know my own grandmothers’ hearts would have burst from joy had I been lost and somehow was found. I get the Amazing Grace and Prodigal Son analogies. There must be a joyfulness and a bit of frustration in understanding why I just won’t call and put Hope on the phone.

But their emergence from the depths has just really rocked my world. I have a pit in my stomach, and I get somewhat nauseous with every new development. I hate not telling Hope yet; I feel like I’m lying by omission, but I need time to get the support team up to speed; it’s a holiday weekend. I am trying to figure out how to tell Hope, which I know will just be straight up, because that’s how we do. The family is supposed to send some of her father’s belongings; I kind of want to wait so that I have those things. I’m just trying to figure it all out. I’m beyond overwhelmed.

I’m also trying not to be afraid of the box of crazy that it feels like has just opened in the middle of a slightly more settled life with Hope. No really, I’m terrified. Seriously one week of Facebook messaging and I see folks not respecting boundaries and spilling the beans on family bickering…about us, no less. And it’s just so much, so much. I can’t even get a good cry. Ugh.

So, as we were off to church, Hope went into one of her attention seeking spells—the infamous “I have an ear infection and cannot swallow and am now dying” routine. These spells still burn my house to the ground; I used to be able to predict them, but now they just seem so random. I usually ignore them until she pivots to a more appropriate way of getting my attention. But today, already peeved and riled up by the Facebook drama, I pulled over and, just as dramatically as her spell came on, dramatically announced that we were going to Patient First to see about her ear, nose and throat.

“Oh, I’m not that sick,”Nah, girl, we’re still going because I’m fed up with the ruse. #overit

Two hours and thirty minutes later, I’m out of a co-pay, burned my cell battery down playing bubble poke while waiting for the doctor to tell us in about 7 minutes what I knew all along: not a dang thing is wrong with Hope, who then pivoted to a spasm story—her backup ruse—which was also quickly dismissed by the doctor.

I sat there all that time getting increasingly annoyed by everything. I was annoyed by all the messaging. I was annoyed by Hope’s collection of feigned illnesses that drive m up the effing wall. I was annoyed that the budget is tight this month and a co-pay wasn’t really planned for. I was annoyed that my diagnosis of “Kid with no physical maladies” was confirmed. I was annoyed by how long we had to wait. I was annoyed that we missed church and I really needed to throw myself in prayer on the altar. I was pissed about not going to Costco and the library. I was just pissed about everything in the world.

Oh I’d worked myself into quite the quiet lather.

And then, while sitting in the treatment room waiting for the doctor to discharge us, one of the aunts sent me a Facebook game invitation and all common sense and any shred of adulthood I might have once had went flying right out the window.

Really, lady? A Facebook game invite. Get off my damn Facebook page right now, dammit, lady. #getoffmylawn I had already put the whole lot of folks in a limited access group after friending me. For some reason it was that dang invite that just tipped me right over into emotional chaos. I block every game request I get from anyone. I hate those damn things.

And sadly, poor Hope was the one that just got iced out. She thought I was mad at her, especially after her faux illnesses were called out; I was annoyed but not mad at her and I told her so. I broke down into unexplainable tears on the drive home. She comforted me, and I told her she could watch a movie while I just retreated into my personal space to gather myself after sufficient guilt-tripping, self-loathing. #mommytimeout

I think I’ll get us to make brownies or cookies or something tonight. We need a bit of healing bonding. Sigh. I think I need the resumption of our routine tomorrow as much as she does. Here’s hoping tomorrow—with the Bey & Jay concert for me—will push us to better days.

6 Comments | tags: adoption, Adoption and Bio Families, Adoption and Emotional Health, Adoption and Emotions, African American Adoption, African American Single Adoptive Mom, Finalization Life | posted in Dealing with the Past, Finalization Life

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