Category Archives: Finalization Life

The Struggle is *Still* Real

A year ago, I published a post called The Struggle is Real.

A year later, it still is. I could reblog that post and one of the few changes I’d make is to note that I traded stupid parenting books for stupid parenting podcasts (not Add Water and Stir, of course!).

A year later I would add the following:

Imposter syndrome is real in parenting. I am making it only because I’m faking it. And by “it” I mean parenting. For all of the parenting wins and Jedi mind-tricks that were wildly successful, I am beaten down by the epic failures I feel like I succumb to on the daily. I am beat down and down trodden.

And there is no end in sight.

It is stunningly easy to forget to practice self-care. Every few weeks I manage to remember I should be taking care of myself and within three days I have forgotten again. In those moments of clarity I plan to log on to the sitter site and book the nannies for regular visits, but an hour later I have forgotten, having gotten caught up in more drama than I care to write about.

It’s affected my waistline. It’s affected my relationships. It’s made me feel weary and teary more than I ever feel happy or joyful. And even though I know if I just take the time to create the structures I need to be ok, I simply push them down as I jet to problem-solve the next crisis. I really do worry at times whether I will simply get sucked all the way into the drama that is Hope, and lose myself.

This month’s self-care win was finding a new therapist who takes my insurance. Her initial reaction to the craziness that is my life was validating.

Now to call the sitter agency and schedule some regular respite.

I think I can. I think I can. I think I can…

Scarred kids do dumb, risky things sometimes. Sure I may know how to deal with it in the moment, but I still have enormous trouble understanding the misfires and disconnects that exist in Hope’s mind. I intellectually get it.  I’ve read all the research about PTSD and the PET scans of kids with trauma. But damn, son, this ish is mind-boggling when it’s not a journal article but a real, live human being up in your ish. I know we are building and rebuilding, but holy crap, it just never seems to end. It’s like a bad video game with thousands of villains; you kill one and there are 30 in its place.

Hope starts high school in a few months. I have no fears about her academic performance, but her social interactions are increasingly risky given this need to have more people like/love her. It’s devastating to know that I’m not enough; even though I knew I wouldn’t be. But I can’t get her to just be careful or even to know that her behaviors are often what drive good people away and draw scary people close.

It’s messy and terrifying.

I have no idea what’s next. None.

I’m not even sure when we tripped into this crazy period. I’m sure that I probably could’ve predicted it, but I didn’t. And I can’t even say that it’s really her; maybe it’s really me with all the problems. Maybe she’s really doing better than I think she is. She probably is.

I don’t know. I know that I’m tired. I am sad.

I was not prepared for this level of sustained challenge. I wasn’t prepared to have my heartbroken over and over again. I wasn’t prepared for just how lonely I would be. I wasn’t prepared for how many people around me would ask questions about my daughter, kindly, and how often I would lie and say things are fine or great.

When I first started doing diversity work, I went back to therapy just so I had a safe place to dump all the ugliness that comes with wading through racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia and the like. I didn’t want to dump it on friends or family. I remember a colleague asking me how I did managed to do this kind of work and not flinch, and one of my mentors who was standing nearby saying, “She wears the mask.” It was a reference to a Paul Laurence Dunbar poem that I love because it’s so true, We Wear the Mask.

I think of that moment and that poem whenever someone asks me how Hope is doing, and I say we’re doing great. In many, many, many ways we are. But in many ways we are not. It is still a very real struggle.

We Wear the Mask

Paul Laurence Dunbar

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

And I know I’ll keep wearing the mask.

I have no idea what’s to come. I hope that the struggle has changed a bit a year from now. I hope the struggle isn’t quite as real a year from now.


The Big Stuff

I realized something recently.  Hope’s epic disaster moments are easier for me to handle than the more routine dumb stuff teens do.

She doesn’t clean her room for a week, and I lose my ever-loving mind.  It is one of my biggest pet peeves.

She’s finds herself talking to an internet predator and insists on lying about it in the face of damning evidence, and I can find oceans of patience.  #iamthepacific

Maybe the latter moments just matter so much more that I deep down know that I have to keep it together.

I actually realized this months ago, but this week’s internet episode brought it into focus for both of us.

I’ve wondered why the day to day, routine stuff gets under my skin so much.  They are more pet peeves and indicators of basic levels of respect, I suppose.  The day to day stuff just infuriates me so.

Staying up later than bedtime. Not getting at least half of the chores done. Privileged expectations about getting material things (amazing how quickly kids can get there). The messy bedroom.

These are the kind of things that drive me nuts. No matter how much effort I expend to chill in some of these areas, they simply make me snap.

But the big stuff? It’s like I can stand outside of myself watching the scene unfold and go, “Keep your wits about you. You totally got this!  Werk, girl, werk!”

This week’s internet fiasco was uncovered during a random device check (more about the Constitution of ABM in a later post). And there it was, in all its hot mess, terrifying glory.

“So who is XX?”

“Hmm, what?   A friend.”

Friend, my arse.

Higher level investigative questioning initiates. Answers are shady as hell and full of poorly constructed lies.  I’m scrolling through and targeting specific texts for more in-depth analysis.  Inside I am shaking because I know what I’ve stumbled on to. I’m angry, but I’m more scared than angry. I manage not to yell.

“So you don’t know him.  And do you think this violates the primary rule of this whole device thing?”

“Uhm…” Mad and still lying.  How is she mad??? My inner mom has pulled out duct tape and is desperately trying to hold me together.

I commence to start threatening texting the suspect and wipe her devices’ hard drives after searching everything.

And then I just dropped the conversation to give her some time to wrestle with her demons.  Later, over Costco pizza and hot dogs, we talk about the hows, whys, and her social and emotional struggles. I got the whole frightening story over a picnic table at Costco and kept it cool. #lawdicant #holdmebackholyhomeboy

I saw my young teenager, and I heard Hope explaining her desperate need to be accepted and cared about by her peers. The thirst is real. I saw and heard how hard it was for her. I saw her drop the mask and the lies and just be vulnerable. I was able to tell her that I saw her and I heard her. We talked about what it meant to be vulnerable and to be discerning and how to develop skills of the latter so she was less of the former.

Because she doesn’t have a “good girlfriend” to tell her that her butt looks bad in those jeans or that she needs to change social tactics, we created agreed upon scenarios when I will code switch and play that role until she develops a friend relationship that can fill that need. She hasn’t called me by my given name in 18 months; now, if she calls me by that name, that’s my cue to code switch.

We role played some social situations, right there at that picnic table in Costco. She told me she was only a 2.5 on a scale of 1 to 5 on a happy scale. I got her to tell me some stuff that would get her to at least a 3, maybe a 4.  We got goals, folks, we got goals.

And we still have so much work to do.

By the time we went for froyo, we were in an amazingly good place.  I rarely severely punish in these moments.  The punishment consequences just wouldn’t get her where I need her to evolve to, so they are an exercise in futility.  She apologizes profusely for more than a week, more because she still harbors a fear of being rejected by me because she does dumb stuff and is thus dumb rather than because she actually did the dumb stuff. Wiping the hard drives and locking down everything is a more productive approach for us right now.

I probably bought myself some currency for future yelling about the mayhem that is Hope’s room or how she notoriously runs late for breakfast during the school week. I really hope so, since right this moment I’m trying to get her to get that room together before we go out for the day and I’m about to lose it (again).

I wish I could handle the routine stuff as well as I handle the big stuff, but I think that the big stuff will simply matter more in the long run.


Thoughts on the Single Life

I am a single mom.

I’ve been giving this single adjective a lot of thought lately.

I have really been feeling the weight of being a single parent, certainly, all of Hope’s time with me, but it’s been especially so the last few weeks. I think because parenting Hope has been more challenging recently.
I have to do everything. Between Hope’s modest, but still present, emotional delays, and the typical teendom antics, it is an exhausting job keeping her out of trouble and keeping her on the path to healing. I know I’ve done a good job, I can see it, but good Lord, I’m so tired and alone.

When it’s tough, I’m drawn into thinking about not having someone to tag out or that I need to call the sitter for some respite time and fret about the costs since there’s only one income. It feels hard and lonely. At the end of the day, at the end of a long challenging day, it is just me. When I think about the depth of that toughness…that loneliness, I am drawn back to grieving about the life I thought I would have. Not that this one is bad, but it’s just…harder than I thought it would be.

And I know that it is ok. It has to be, right?

Oh, I appreciate the few upsides: I don’t have to consult with anyone on how best to raise Hope. I get to make all the decisions. I get to be the ultimate ride or die mom because it’s just me!

But it’s not easy. It isn’t at all easy.

Lately, I have been wondering what the devil I was thinking getting into this journey alone. I knew it would be challenging, but I never would have conceived that it would be this hard. I wonder what it would be like if I had husband when I started. What would it be like to have had a husband or just long time love to help me raise Hope? I wonder if Hope would have still been my kid if I was partnered; my being single was an important part of our match.

Of course I’ll never know.

But I do wonder.

I suppose ultimately I would prefer not to be a single mom. I don’t know if my status will ever change. Again, this journey is just not what I thought it would be. We’re surviving; we may even be on the path to thriving, but this single parenting thing is not what my plan was supposed to be. And sometimes that reality makes me sad.


Love All

Now that it’s finally getting warmer and the cherry trees are blossoming, Hope and I have taken to going out in the evenings to go do some activities.  I recently wrote about how painful our first evenings on the tennis courts went.

Hope assumed that her prowess in Wii Tennis would carry over onto the real courts. She was mistaken, and because I’m petty, I took no prisoners and beat the breaks off of her. I’ve been nursing tennis elbow ever since the second time on the courts and now pre-game with 800mgs of ibuprofen before every outing.

This week has been hellish. It’s been so bad that my insomnia slammed back, and I’m not good without at least 5.5 hours (preferably at least 6.5). But today I resolved that I needed to turn things around.

With a break in the April showers, Hope asked if we could hit the courts.  I popped my pills and off we went, but this time I started trash talking.

Oh yeah….

“You can call me Dr. Evil!” #yappyisbigglesworth

“Punks jump up to get beat down.” #brandnubian

“Mama said knock you out!” #LLCoolJishardashell

“You’re going to hit nothing but net, like you’re playing basketball.”

Hope was shocked. Hope was also amused and started chiming in with her own trash talk, which was so absurdly goofy that I can’t even string some of her crazy together.

Today we had legit volleys which made tennis actually fun and my hurting elbow totally worth it.

And today we kinda resolved to relish the opportunity to talk trash on the courts, while playing, while safe in ways that we can’t do when we’re fighting about real stuff.

Our trash talk made us laugh, allowed us to poke fun at each other and have a really fun evening.

On the walk back to the condo, we giggled about all the dumb stuff we said and how we were going to up our trash talk game before we play again.  I told her she really needed to listen to some classic hip hop as most of my disses were song lyrics. lol

Maybe we’re emerging from the latest downturn in our journey.  I hope so.

We don’t really keep score, and yet we enjoy bickering about who “won.” Over dinner, Hope admitted that we were probably tied.

I smiled.

Love-all.


Add Water and Stir 19: Adoption Disruption and Rehoming

The Podcast!

The Podcast!

Be sure to join Complicated Melodi’s Mimi and AdoptiveBlackMom’s ABM this Thursday as they wade into to touchy subjects of adoption disruption and adoptee rehoming.  What kinds of things lead to adoption disruption and how common (or uncommon) is adoptee rehoming?  The ladies will talk about various articles on the topics and share some of their own musings about some of the scary topics no one really likes to talk about when it comes to adoption.

The ladies will catch up on their respective homefronts, chat about trash tv, and mayhaps, drop a few recommendations, too!

Tune in live on Thursday, April 16th at 9:30pm EDT/8:30pm CDT on Google Hangouts.  Or catch us later on Youtube, our podcast page, Itunes and Stitcher and be sure to leave us a review!


Supporting You from the Back Room

So, it is official: there will be no dedication, no blessing.

I kinda knew this was coming, but hearing it, especially after the week I’ve had…ugh.

Hope and I crashing a baby dedication wouldn’t fit the precious motif they’ve constructed.

Having a separate adoption blessing for families like ours isn’t really the direction they want to go in, because well, won’t all those other families with their biological children want their kids/families blessed?  I mean, you can’t expect them to just bless EVERYONE, do you? #sarcasm

Yes, we know it is so disappointing when you don’t get what you want. #yeahpastorsaidthatwhileIsobbed

They would be happy to do something privately after church, when no one is around to witness it and ask all kinds of questions they don’t want to answer; I can even invite anyone I want. My handler family pastor would even be happy to do it.  #heywhydontwejustdoitatsizzler

And that would be something else for me to plan and coordinate; like I don’t have enough to do.

“It’s just not on our grid.”

“We can’t change our motif.”

No, I replied, you’re actively choosing not to.

“We’re still supporting you.”

How’s that?

It’s odd to reject a blessing and to do it standing on a principle.  But I can’t do it, not in a backroom so that the blessing of me and Hope doesn’t offend some fellow churchgoers’ sensibilities or makes them wonder why we’re being blessed and they aren’t.  Or even worse because me and my 13 year old just aren’t as cute and precious as the babies being blessed every 4th Sunday and we just don’t fit the “motif.” I don’t feel supported in doing that, and I don’t want to co-sign on that marginalization.

It’s not that I’m hunting for attention, standing on stage getting blessed, but I just don’t understand the need to hide my family. I suppose I’m somehow grateful that any offer was made, but it’s hard for me to not grasp how *they* didn’t see how it might be…offensive. And hurtful, deeply hurtful. I loved my church before all this, now I can barely stand driving by it.

Saying that my church did something offensive to me is weird, but I’ve left a church before because I found raging bigotry offensive, so I guess it happens. I guess in my privileged mind, I never thought I’d be on the receiving end of the offense. #thatsprivilegeforya #blindedbyprivilege

The family pastor hopes I’ll turn the other cheek. #WWJD #imnotJesus

Sadly, I am not sure I can.  And it’s not even like it’s a crisis of faith or anything. I just totally disagree with the whole deal.

I’m grateful to finally have this mess resolved.  I’m not sure how to explain to Hope that we will be moving churches.  She enjoys the services there. But we’ll be visiting other churches.  I don’t want my daughter to see me just not go because of this; we need to be in fellowship somewhere.  My current church no longer feels fellowshippy.

I’ve been doing diversity work for a long time now.  It is an odd feeling to have a new identity that somehow isn’t welcomed.  It’s also an odd juxtaposition of being held up to adoption-sainthood, but being asked to be blessed in the back room.  It’s odd after enduring all the metaphors about Christ adopting us and how God loves adoption…to hear that we don’t fit…I just can’t.

Despite the sadness, I’m glad this chapter is now closed.

Well, the beat goes on.  Special thanks to the kind folks at DC127 for reaching out to me through FB with leads to churches where Hope and I will be welcome and supported in ways that will help us grow and be a healthy, successful family. I’m going to turn my attention to pursuing some of those leads and finding us a new church home.


Technicolor Fantasies

It’s been a hell of a week.

The angel of death has touched colleagues, distant friends and family this week.  I discovered there’s a food theft/trash hoarding problem in this house (again). A new tennis racket was destroyed in a fit of frustration because apparently you can’t just walk on a court and think you’re Serena Williams even if you regularly post high scores on Wii tennis. An unsolicited, but  serious job offer was extended that made me consider what “leaning in” means for me career and family wise. Some kid on the bus brought alcohol.  Some other kid seems to have started cutting. Band field trip fees are due. I realized that Hope has gone from being economically disadvantaged to being so very entitled, and that ish needs to be shut down. I broke out in tears during a confrontation with my family pastor on Easter Sunday about the BS way my church has handled my family blessing request. I am fasting from coffee and my evening cocktail, so I’m pissy and petty like a viper and snap in an instant. Pictures from my sister’s recent nuptials reveal that I have indeed crossed over from curvy land into fat land. And if I find that damn tablet on the floor one more got-dern time….

Yappy did finally master sit/stay and make it through his temptation island training test this week, so there’s that.

But, he’s also got his own hoarding problem with that growing lair of his under my bed.

I’ve barely, barely remembered Elihu’s birthday this week.  Oh, I’m not prepared to do anything for said birthday, but I did remember to forget it a day early. #helovesmeanyway

I’m tired. Worn out. And I swear my brown knuckles are currently white.

Wasn’t vacation last week?

Oh, right that was a vacation with Hope, which was great incidentally, but when I realized that all the good me stuff I had planned for Easter Monday wasn’t going to happen because I had forgotten that Monday was a student holiday, I realized that the mommyhood vacation realness leaves something to be desired.

Man, this journey is the business!  Do you hear me?  THE BUSINESS!

I went to my agency’s support group for participants of our older child adoption program yesterday. I admitted to something there that seems dreadful to ever utter.

I fantasize about my life without Hope. Pre-Hope. During-Hope.  Post-Hope.  Hope-never-existed-Hope.

I fantasize about my life without Hope.

I am going through a period of constantly fantasizing about my old life, in particular, my single, no kids, just me and the Furry One life.  I know I’ve romanticized it a bit.  You know, it’s like remembering in technicolor.

I remember longingly the ease of slipping into a happy hour with friends or heading to the theatre for some Shakespearean adaptation. I remember thinking about how delicious it would be when I finished school and finally took a nap again. I fantasize about napping in general, with really, really nice bedding. I remember my complicated life as not seeming or feeling too complicated at all in technicolor.  I remember being able to see a cool deal on Groupon and just picking up and going somewhere for the weekend. I remember getting massages and getting my hair razor cut by this awesome chick at the salon across the street from my office.

If I stretch my mind, I remember back more than a 15 years ago when my roomie and I would hit the salsa clubs and shut them down midweek, night after night, dancing with our friends. I remember the first time my realtor took me out to look at homes to buy and finally feeling grown up. I remember decorating my home just the way I liked it and having Juneteenth parties and dinner parties and just friends over.  I remember how having all the control in my life made me feel. I remember how I took it for granted.

I fantasize about what my life would be like right this minute if I had made the choice to continue on that path when I got to the fork in the road.  I fantasize about still being in control of my life.

Well, not all of it.

During these technicolor fantasies, I happily gloss over the heartbreak when one of the great loves of my life dumped me, or when one of my dearest friends died, the first one in adulthood and I never got to say goodbye. I choose not to focus remembering how I wondered if I would ever marry and have biological children. I choose not to dwell, during these fantasies, on the people who openly asked me, painfully and insensitively, if I was ever going to marry and have children. Or the time that I was presumed to be a lesbian because I hadn’t married or brought a man home since college. I choose not to remember the trail of tears of less than great relationships, including and especially the one that launched me into my doctoral program because it was so toxic that spending $70K seemed cheap, yet rewarding expense of ridding myself of his awfulness. I don’t bother with a lot of thought about when the doctors told me I wouldn’t have biological kids and how hard I cried sitting in that office…alone, with no partner to console me. I don’t remember deep enough to dredge up the lonely moments when I thought, on my way home one morning after a night out, that there’s got to be more to life than this. I don’t think too much about how this isn’t the first church that has made me feel like an outcast or how suspicious it all makes me of the whole institution of “religion.”

Nope. I don’t remember any of that as I construct the fantasies of my life pre-Hope.

I’m weary this week.

I do hope that one day, I’ll be reminiscing about these times in my life and that I fail to critically remember ishttay weeks like this one, when I wish I could change the locks or move under cover of night…without her. I hope I don’t remember wondering if any of this was a good idea. I hope I don’t remember how long it took for the joys to outnumber the crap-filled emotions that are too numerous to list here. I hope this period looks vibrant in the future.

But I hope that it doesn’t look so great because that future period sucks way more than this one. I wish I didn’t have to romanticize this period of my life outside of my home.

Wouldn’t it be nice to just reminisce because it was a good time, not because its a technicolor fantasy about “the good times?”

So here’s to hoping next week is actually a good time and a fantasy real.


Searching for Self

The search for information about Hope’s family started a year ago for me. I starting digging for numerous reasons, I suppose, but mostly I was curious about how this kid ended up in my home instead of with her parents  or with some extended family.  I just couldn’t understand how somebody in her family couldn’t make a kinship adoption work.

Honestly, it is still a mystery to me on some levels, even if I now know–intellectually at least–why.

I poked around with the help of a friend on Hope’s father’s side of the family.  I had more information about him; I knew where he was from; I also had a better sense of who he was because Hope talks about him a lot.

All I have about Hope’s mother is her full name, nationality and a scattering of information in the adoption disclosure records.  Hope and her mother were separated when Hope was very young; there aren’t many memories to go on.

Hope has been wanting to get an account on Ancestry-dot-com. I’ve declined repeatedly.  Lots of reasons for that.  I know that as thirsty for information as Hope can be, that showing her the records I have managed to acquire over the last year, in what I hope is a safe, controlled environment still triggered some emotional tailspins.  And while that’s true, it’s is hard to say no to a kid who just wants to know who she is. Add to that the developmental teen years when identity development is so front and center, well…

This weekend Hope and I visited some family; at some point in my trip one of my sisters was cruising around looking for family on Ancestry.  It was a fascinating process, tedious too, uncovering some family history, maybe a secret or two and just seeing how far back we could go. I noted my own sister’s curiosity about our family.  Earlier in the day I had taken Hope to meet a family member who still lives in the same county, on the same property near where my mother was raised.  I spent a lot of my childhood there playing the fields, picking grapes and berries, listening to box fans whirl while propped in windows during the summer. These experiences in these places with my family are very much a core to who I am.

And just like that, unexpectedly, the tail end of Spring Break was all about family.

So, when Hope publicly asked me to sign up for Ancestry last night, in front of my family, I couldn’t say no; even though I am still not positive we are stable enough to handle what we might find.

So, on the way home, Hope and I talked. Talking about Hope’s mom is tough.  The feelings are raw; the viewpoint is unforgiving, the experiences and feelings are locked in a protective glass case.

I opened the case last night, cautiously. I shared what I knew; dropped a bombshell that I did know about Hope’s lineage. Then I spent a good 30 minutes talking to hope about grace and forgiveness sometimes being for our own benefit, and that I’m sure her parents would have been able to make different choices if different options were available; or if they thought/knew different options were available.  I tried to explain that systems are not always set up to help us in the ways we need to be helped.

Hope wondered what life for her would’ve have been like if her parents had the help and support they needed.  I remember how I felt rejected when the first time she said something like this; I don’t anymore.  I just feel sad because I wonder what life would’ve been like too, for all of us.

When we got home I showed Hope some more papers from her disclosure records that helped me know what I do know about her parents.  There are some things she wants to frame.

It was a bit shocking to me that she wanted to frame a copy of a copy of a document. But I get it. I just wish that we didn’t have to wait until she is 18 to get authentic copies of things she’s entitled too.  It infuriates me that I can’t request them on her behalf–after all, I am legally her mother now. I also know that these documents are important to Hope’s healing and development.

We also talked about what it might feel like to stumble upon some big information on Ancestry.  Was Hope ready?  Was she ok with that?  What would it feel like? Now she’s not so sure she’s ready to search for stuff.  It’s not that I don’t want her to search at all; it’s the uncontrolled environment that scares me.

Even more so, it’s the reaction to information and what it means for my coping with her coping that scares me.

Sounds pretty selfish, but honestly, other than in my own therapy and a couple of close friends, I don’t talk about what the emotional upheaval is like in my “real” life other than to say it’s hard and I’m still standing.

We go through some emotional stuff around these parts.  It’s sooooo much better than it used to be.  We’ve gotten better at processing it, but it is never easy. It takes a toll.

And I’d be lying if I said I wish I could avoid it, even though I know I can’t.

This family journey search will likely be one of the most important, most challenging, most enlightening, most shocking, most scary, most awesome journeys Hope and I will travel together.

I’m scared I won’t get it right.  I’m scared that whatever grace is needed from me will run out.  And yeah, to some degree, I’m scared that I might get rejected.

So, like many things I’m going to work on this behind the scenes for a while and see what I can find so that I’m prepped and ready to help Hope find herself–because that’s what this is really about, right?


Lessons Learned: Vacation Edition #3

Day 3 of our French Canadian experience had me a bit moody, which isn’t the best, but I rallied.  I know Hope hates it when my moods shift so quickly; she still hasn’t gotten used to it.  The truth is neither have I.  I’ve always been this way.  What do they call it, mercurial? Yeah, that’s me.  I did have some time to really observe us and others yesterday so and of course learn.

_________

We still have so much to learn about each other.  Hope and I have been living in the same house now for 14 months and we’re coming up on our first finalization anniversary.  And, honestly, we know each other, but we don’t know each other.  I swear it’s worse than dating!

Last night over dinner, in an effort to cheer my dreary mood, Hope suggested that we play 20 questions.

By question 3 I was cracking up at things she wanted to know: who was my crush when I was her age; what did I think my dream home would look like when I was in high school; who was my Woman Crush Wednesday back in college, before there was ever a WCW?

What brands of clothing and shoes were my favorite?  If I could be taller than 5’3” how tall would I be?

I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up if the music thing didn’t work out; what other instrument would she play besides her tenor sax; what was the hardest thing and easiest thing about moving cross country (the weather, but we have better amusement parks).  I asked her when she thought I should let her go on her first date and what was her first impression of me.  I giggled when she asked if I was white because there aren’t a lot of black women with my name; she was relieved when she was told I was Black because she didn’t want it to be obvious that she was adopted.

The “obviousness” of adoption is a running thread with us.  We were recently asked to have our images included on our agency’s redesigned website; it took us a month to decide to say yes with limitations.  We are open about our adoption on our terms; we like blending in.

When all 40 questions were asked, we agreed to do it again today.  It was fun.

Having choice and making decisions is really hard for Hope. Oy, Hope wants all the options and I’d love for her to have them, but they lock her up like a prison.  Even choosing what flavors to have in a sorbet at the ice cream shop can turn into a major life decision because there are more than 4 options.  I had fallen out of the habit of establishing guidelines before when entered a store, but realized yesterday that in this respect Hope is very much like a 5 year old.  Don’t touch things that look breakable.  You can have 2 flavors not 4.  We will be in this shop for 10 minutes.  Having the boundaries helps her.  She told me recently that she liked the boundaries a lot; she’s shocked that some other kids don’t have the same kinds of boundaries.

I guess being a strict ogre is working out for me and her.

My lessons in social justice have taken root.  Hope already had a strong sense of justice when I met her, but who got it and why weren’t quite what I had in mind.  She seemed to really believe that being Black was limiting in ways that it isn’t.  She had no problem tossing around homophobic slurs.  The justice scales weren’t exactly balanced.

We’ve been watching coverage of the foolery in Indiana this week, in which Governor Pence signed legislation that essentially legalized discrimination based on a personal religious belief.  A bunch of foolery with wider implications than being able to say no I don’t want to make a cake for your gay wedding.

After I explained what was going down in Indiana and how it might affect my friends who live there, Hope pondered.  She chewed on that thing for hours, occasionally asking a question or two to clarify.  Over dinner she declared the law stupid.

Yep, that was my conclusion too, kid.

But she went further and asked about other states, and what about our state, and what about her friends who were bisexual or lesbian or gay?  What about them?  She made the leap that some folks might not serve non-Christians and what were those people supposed to do?  She made the leap to color and what if someone said brown and black folk weren’t of God and didn’t want to serve us?

And the wheels on the bus go round and round.

Hope wants, no needs, to memorialize everything.  I’m hoping to have a chat about being happy again today with Hope. We talked about happiness recently, and I was intrigued but sad to hear my daughter talk about happiness as not sustainable because she conceptualizes happiness as episodic and not a state of mind.

The practical way this plays out is in her picture taking.  Seriously we need to plan double time for when we go somewhere because she must take pictures of EVERYTHING.  It’s crazy how many pictures she snaps, hundreds in a day.  Even crazier, she wants me to print them ALL out so she can put them in a photo album.  I’ve tried to suggest uploads to apps like Google+ Photos, but nope, she wants to print them out. Bless her, Hope is old school to her very soul; her and this picture taking and albuming is like somebody’s grandma!

I’ve come to see her snaps as a desperate way to cling to memories, to look back at the happy episode.  She still doesn’t trust this life; she says she probably will never come here again.  I don’t know if that’s true, but she still doesn’t believe that it doesn’t have to be true.  I hope to get her to that positive thinking place about her life one day.

She takes so many pictures that I hardly take any now.

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So we head back stateside tonight.  Today is lunch at the Noobox, a visit to the history museum so I can see the Greek history exhibit and a tiny bit of shopping.  Despite the exchange rate, I find Canada to be a bit pricey!


Lessons Learned: Vacation Edition #2

Day two of Montreal brought us to the absurdly confusing underground/upper ground mall situation.  We spent hours there and just went I thought it was time to shuffle somewhere else we tripped into a whole other section of the area.  All this wandering about gave me time to think of new lessons.

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I hate the word, “Oooooooh.”  No, really I hate hearing Hope go “ooooh” when she sees something because she invariably follows it with “I need this…”  Really, you need a $29 Hello Kitty wallet that will be on the floor with the mirror crushed inside of a month?  “Oooooooh” grates on my nerves like I cannot explain; it is a red herring for me.

I like shopping, and I like to take care of my things.  Hope is in a phase of life in which taking care of things from this life; as opposed to her pre-adoptive life–just doesn’t happen.  Stuff ends up on floor, broken all the time.

In recent months I’ve started working on helping her take a minute to think about the difference between need and want.  I also found it necessary to downsize her food orders because she tends to order everything and eat nothing, which triggers an emotional response from her about wastefulness.

I heard “oooooooh” a lot yesterday and I am now really aware that everytime I hear it, I cringe a little bit inside.

Size matters.  Hope is very tall, statuesque, even.  In the face she still looks pretty young, but in this busy world, who really pays attention?  It is shocking to me how adults are rude to each other because we can be.  I am guilty of this sometimes; at times I’m in a hurry or just want what I want and I might get snappy.

Observing Hope yesterday interact with clerks in shops let me know that she is subjected to a bunch of adult pettiness on the regular because it takes folks a minute to really look at her and realize she’s just a kid.  Oy!

Hope is practicing her French while on this trip (amazing how it’s coming along!).  A lot of practicing is just in building the confidence to ask questions; Hope has so little confidence.  In one shop she started to ask a question and she stumbled a little bit.  The clerk sniffed, rolled her eyes and grunted, “I speak English.” Hope grimaced and physically stepped back.

I stepped forward and tersely stated that my daughter was attempting to practice, might she show just a wee bit of patience with her?

I saw the light bulb go on.

The conversation proceeded in French, haltingly, but in the end I congratulated Hope on trying again and nodded my thanks to the formerly shady clerk.

I realized that Hope probably gets some form of these size based assumptions on the regular and that makes me kind of sad.

Vacation sleep is a beautiful thing, when you can get it.  Last night we got take out and I let Hope watch something dumb while I caught up on magazines from last month.  I eventually just fell asleep.  I need want 6 pillows and nice bedding back home.  I slept so wonderfully.

Zzzzzz.

Of course the fact that my fitbit says I walked nearly 18K steps yesterday probably has something to do with my sound sleep. Fitbit says I had 100% sleep efficiency last night; apparently I only rolled over once.

I still have so much to learn about teen communication. Yesterday over croissants, cocoa and a latte, Hope opened up about being lonely at school.  I’ve fretted quite a bit about her social skills the last year.  She does act a bit young for her age, has some issues with anger and just struggles with friendships.

So, I listened to her open up about being lonely on the boyfriend front.

Having these conversations is kind of like having the best cup of coffee and then putting your hand directly on the red eye of the stove with no Ove-Glove.  They don’t end well.

I love it when she opens up to me. Love it.  But it’s tricky and I feel vulnerable.  One wrong move can trigger sighing and protestations of “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND AT ALL.”

Yesterday I initially started with trying to parse out whether she was lonely because she wanted a boyfriend or was she lonely because she felt left out because “everyone else” (which really could be only one person) has one and she didn’t.  This brought me a few minutes of an explanation that leaned more to the latter then to the former.

I asked what does a 13 year old’s relationship look like?  I had to ask because from my vantage point so far, it appeared to be a lot of texting with emoticons, followed by crying and gnashing of teeth. I was happy to hear that boys still walk their SO’s to class and sometimes carry their books was a visual indicator of being coupled up.

Hope asked me about Elihu, which as a pretty big deal that must’ve shook me a bit since I wasn’t expecting it and while she knows he exists and has seen him, I don’t really talk about him. Then I realized me and E were included in her tally of “EVERYONE has someone EXCEPT ME.”

For reals?

Yeah, Hope is sitting in this cafe looking at me, thinking, “Even my mamma got somebody.”

Well dangit.

I steered things back and shared that my love life at 13 was similar to hers, and in fact most girls would say that it was similar.  Things aren’t always what they seemed.

Whelp, that was the end of that.  “No mom, they are.  You don’t know, you don’t know anything, just never mind.”

With my now 3rd degree burned hand, I went back to my coffee and croissant, and we didn’t speak for nearly an hour.

Sharing is caring.  I stay in touch with Hope’s extended first family.  I send them letters and pictures with some regularity.  I do tend to keep them locked out of social media stuff; not that I pust much stuff about Hope on my personal page, but like any parent I do.  Given how things all went down for us on Facebook, I still am leery about sharing too much there.  I’ve posted a photogrid each day we’ve been here, and it is heartwarming to open it up so they can see our adventures.  One aunt left the sweetest message yesterday.

It felt good to lift the veil.

Hope is still not ready to have her own contact but is so appreciative of my efforts to keep that door open and to keep her family somewhere in our world.  I’m hopeful that one day we’ll get there and that there will be some positive, healthy relationship amongst us all.  But for now, it’s amazing how lifting a privacy setting on FB can mean so much to people.

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Today is museums and a promised horse and carriage ride, maybe a nice dinner too.

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K E Garland

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