Category Archives: Self Care

Eat the Cake

I like cake.

Scratch that.

I love cake.

The first few weeks after Hope was placed with me, I made what I called my weekly stress cake. It resulted in what I now like to call my “adoption weight” that I’m still carrying around.

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via Giphy

Making a simple white cake with chocolate buttercream frosting is something that happens with some level of regularity around these parts. I get it from my mom. She also loves to cook and bake. I can go to her house on any given day, having driven 100 miles, and find cake. It might be leftover cake, typically, I’m going to find cake.

I love cake.

Cake isn’t one of Hope’s favorite things. I can probably count on one hand how many times she has expressed any interest in having some cake I baked. Even when we get to my mom’s house, she’s uninterested in the baked goods, typically bonding with my dad over Popsicles. Cakes aren’t Hope’s thing.

But cake is totally my thing.

So, during our great family visit of #springbreak17, Hope’s grandmother started asking me about cooking and baking. My cake fetish came up. She laughed heartily as Hope and I described my love of cake and particularly homemade white cake with buttercream frosting. She chuckled and began to describe her baking process.

Now, no disrespect, but my granny, my momma and me…we don’t do cake mixes. I bought a cake cookbook one time and found when I got home that it was a cookbook dedicated to fixing up cake mixes. Um. No. The book was returned.

Not only is cake my thing, but I am an unapologetic cake snob.

As a part of her baking process, Grandma Hope talked about how she jazzed up her cake mix, and I smiled broadly and politely, delighted in the story. I’m sure it’s good; it may even be great….but um…cake mix? #thatscute #cakesnob

So, the next day when we went over for our last visit, Grandma Hope presented us with a heart shaped chocolate cake. It was the sweetest thing. So very sweet. She even put it on a real plate that we were to take with us back home.

So, we make our way to our next major travel stop, cake in tow. Despite my snobbery, I looked forward to having a nice piece of cake as we settled into our hotel that evening. I even had my wine in a can. It was fittin’ to be a good night.

Having cake is soothing to me; it’s not just my sweet tooth, it’s one of my favorite comfort foods. So, a cake, including cake mix cakes, made with love is going to hit my emo spot every time. This cake was going to allow me to get lit after several days of maintaining my emotions in a vice grip.

That is until Hope started making rumblings about *her* cake and how preemptively annoyed she was that I intended on taking a *big* piece of cake.

Wha? Hmmmm. Interesting. Ok.

Sister K ran an errand to get some things including some paper plates and plastic forks because I was getting some cake that night and needed something to put the cake on. Hope accompanied her and encouraged the purchase of small plates so as to limit the size of my anticipated cake debauchery. Sister K got an earful about the cake situation.

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via Giphy

By the time Hope and I checked into our room and settled in, my taste for cake had been soured by Hope’s anxiety about me cutting into the cake her grandma made for “her.” Never mind that she doesn’t even LIKE cake.

I called my mother and explained the situation. We marveled at how a proper Southern granny didn’t make scratch cakes! Yes, we were petty and judgy. I really wanted cake but SWORE that I would not touch Grandma Hope’s cake. I reasoned that I ain’t want her old box cake anyway.

After the family lovefest of the previous view days and the grace and southern charm required of me, I was saltier than a salt lick about not having cake–even a box cake! It brought out my petty and I confided in my Add Water co-host and good pal Mimi–who enjoyed a good chuckle at my cake related emotional shenanigans.

Despite my pettiness, I understood that Hope saw this as a very special gift from Grandma Hope. I intellectually understood that she had to play out this possessiveness, especially after how welcoming her family had become of me. This was an opportunity for her to have something from this visit all to herself. Oh, I get it, but I also knew that Grandma Hope made that cake largely for me because HOPE DOESN’T EVEN LIKE CAKE and she told her grandma so.

But whatevs. <Cue more laughs from Mimi.>

So I’m talking to my mom about this cake situation, and I ask her to make me a cake. Oh, yeah, I did. Dueling cakes. I had held my petty in check for 4 days…that might be a record. Ha! She said of course she would make me a cake because my momma loves her big petty, cake-loving kid. We debated the finer points of cakes made from scratch, milk vs. dark chocolate powder and marble cakes, because I come by my pettiness honestly.

I licked my lips in anticipation.

In the meantime, I hit the grocery store for a bit of commercially made cake to tide me over. I ate it alone and disposed of the container so Hope didn’t know. I might be petty, but I do have some semblance of couth that was still hanging on for dear life.

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I soon lost it though, and my petty was on full display by the time we arrived at my parent’s house a day or so later. I kissed my daddy hello, chatted about the lawn for a minute; walked into a house, grabbed a saucer and a knife and proceeded to cut myself a nice slice of homemade, lemon buttercream frosted white cake.

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It was delicious. And it was like a big emotionally satisfying sigh: Ahhhhhh.

Hope watched, and said, “You’re just going to eat that cake?”

Me, mouth full: “Yup. My mom’s cake.” #becausepetty

My mom commented that she could still make me a chocolate cake if I wanted. I declined. Got a plate of mac and cheese, a turkey wing and another piece of lemon cake. And all was well with my soul.

Hope got a Popsicle with her grandpa.

We are home now. Grandma Hope’s cake has traveled about 600 miles in a warm car and is 5 days old and counting. It is still wrapped in plastic and still uncut. I’m guessing it’s not going to get cut either, because cake isn’t Hope’s thing; it’s just not. I know there is going to be hell to pay when I have to dispose of the cake; it’s unfortunate. I really did look forward to having a piece of love on a plate.

I really do intellectually get why there was cake drama, but I also know that there was something about shaming me into not eating it that doesn’t make Hope happy. She wanted to protect the cake, but she is shocked that I haven’t touched it. I’m not sure she knows what’s behind the cake thing. I know that she doesn’t understand my own emotional connection to the cake. It will probably be many moons and a lot of therapy before she gets that connection.

I wish we had been able to enjoy the cake together. When Hope finally cut into her cake, she did offer me some. I wish I could’ve said yes, but I really wanted no part of the cake. My feelings, sadly, just were too much for me to even take one gracious bite. I’m tired and have been on my relative best behavior for a week. I did not want any of that cake.

Of course she dropped the first piece on the floor, which the deeply petty part of me took as a sign that sometimes the universe is petty and reactive.

I made myself some brownies instead.

Another time and another cake.


Thoughts on Acceptance

Christmas was lovely.  Good times with family and friends. There was lots of eating, minimal exercise, movie watching, more eating, lots of laughs and lots of catching up and dishing about life.

There was also a decision to just consciously accept some stuff that my typical hot headed self wouldn’t bother to accept.

In life, there are countless things that we must reconcile between our greatest desires and our greatest disappointments.

It isn’t easy. Some times, even after years and lots of work, we find ourselves so easily triggered. The flood of disappointment and sadness come crushing back over us like a tsunami wave. Sometimes it feels like we have to start the grieving process all over again just because of one little innocuous sentence.

For me, I know that two big triggers in the last 4 years are folks with commentary on raising a child with a trauma background and having a baby.

It’s amazing how many people have so much to say about these topics. The former I know is really because the issues are largely masked for folks outside of my and Hope’s home. They don’t know what I know or see and experience what I do. They make assumptions about my parenting, and draw conclusions about me and Hope.

The latter is more complicated because most folks don’t know that my journey towards Hope came after a pretty traumatic life event that left me unable to bear children or that my chances of having a biological child were iffy even before the event.

In the early days of this journey, I never anticipated that folks would have so much to say.  Well, they do. And, well, that sucks because it hurts.

It hurts a lot sometimes.

I’ve read a lot about other people’s journeys through parenting trauma and infertility; my story and my sensitivity around these issues aren’t unique. In fact, daily folks are posting about conversations and announcements that pierce their hearts and reduce them to tears.

Over the years, I learned to live with my deflector shields half way up. Having them all the way up creates too much of a barrier between me and the people I love. Besides, after a few years, my ability to react and respond has improved along with their level of sensitivity.

Well, I realized on this trip that my emotional shields were fully lowered, but it’s ok. It forced me to make a decision that I think will be healthier for me.

I mentioned that there is a new baby in the family. My sister gave birth to a baby boy recently. Our family is over the moon. He’s just perfect.

This triggered some comments about how folks thought me and my sisters would never have children or that it’s such a blessing that my parents are  finally now grandparents.

Oh, great, we’re two for two!

In the moment on Christmas day, I gave myself the gift of acceptance. I shared that gift and sprinkled it liberally all about.

The reality is these are people I love deeply. These are people who want the best for me. These are people who would never knowingly hurt me. These are people who may not always know what to say.

Some of these folks are a bit older and aren’t necessarily hip to all of the ways folks might be hurt or offended. Some of these folks have reached the age where even if they did, they don’t have to be uber-sensitive about much anymore because: old.

The long and short of it is, no one means to hurt me or stick their foot in their mouth, and even if they did, what does it cost me in that moment to just accept it and move on?

Oh it hurts. It does; there’s no denying that.

But accepting that there is no malice, that they may be caught up in the euphoria of having a much-desired baby around (which frankly I am as well), well, it doesn’t cost me much.

Sure, I could politely correct them. I could gently educate them. I could do all kinds of things. But frankly, that just exposes more of me and whatever emotions I’m wrestling with. It also makes me feel like I have to bring the dark cloud I keep on the shelf in my mind closet out and drag it with me everywhere I go.

I’m tired of living like that.

Just accepting folks and assuming and believing the best in them saves us both. In some of those moments, they are expressing their own joy about whatever. I don’t need to temper their joy just because they used poor phrasing or were insensitive or just didn’t remember my ouchy places.

So, I made a conscious decision to just accept the presence of commentary that occasionally dredges my wounds.

It’s life, man. It just life. I can’t have hazard cones all over the place all the time. It’s exhausting, and frankly, it’s exhausting being hurt and/or angry. It’s exhausting having the same conversations over and over. And frankly, it’s ridiculous for me to think that my life is so big that everyone should speak in whispered tones around me about babies and trauma related behaviors.

I’m a grown ass woman. This life has put me through harder paces than that.

I mean, I could write my own list of things not to say to an infertile woman or a parent raising a child with a trauma background, but guess what? It wouldn’t make that much of a difference because the folks who typically make those comments don’t run in the blogging circles I do—it’s not going to be read by them.

So, I’ve decided to practice some grace and accept these moments as they come. It’s ok.

I also know that Hope watches me, and while I teach her to advocate for herself, I want her to see when and how I choose to do it for myself. Not everything needs a response. Not everything needs a bark and a bite.

Acceptance is a good thing for me. It allows me to just put things in context. It allows me to focus on the good. It allows me to not ache. It doesn’t mean that things don’t hurt, but it makes it manageable.

I can’t change people. I only have the power to change my reaction to people.

In the end that is the power play.


Clouds of Sadness

The range of emotions felt at Casa d’ABM is pretty wide. I’ve always been pretty high strung, and I’ve written about my own struggle with depression in this space before. Living with a teenager is pretty tumultuous. The hormones…O.M.G. It’s amazing, really. I am convinced that I didn’t display the full range of crazy that I was feeling during my adolescence—not that I didn’t have the emotional swings, but that I didn’t act out.

Lots of people think my parents were strict; to some degree they were, but really they set high expectations and I had absurdly high expectations for myself. With the bar so high I was mindfully cautious about acting out.

I was a bit jealous of kids who didn’t seem to approach adolescence the same way. I wished I’d sneaked out more; went to more movies I wasn’t supposed to see. I did a fair amount of boozing my senior year, but still there was a hard limit on what I would do. Not a bad thing, but a self-control thing that gave me hang ups later in life.

So, now, years later, having a teenaged daughter who is a trauma survivor, is impulsive, at times angry, and seeming always sad…well it makes for an emotional roller coaster for all of us.

Except for Yappy—world’s happiest dog.

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So I guess that should say both of us.

This is an especially hard time of the year for Hope. Lots were crammed into the summer months of her young life. This year the memories seem to be crushing. We get treatment, therapy, but sometimes the sadness moves in faster than a weather cold front.

And if you know anything about weather, cold fronts, hitting warm air means storms. Sometimes really, really, crazy storms.

That happens here. The storms are a bit quieter now than when we first became a family, but they are no less disruptive or worrisome.

I try to remind myself that the frequent presence of emotional storm, complete with downpours, represent that this is a safe place. Hope is able to express her full range of emotions in our home. This is a safe place to work through it all; she can emote here.

But here’s the thing, secondary trauma and compassion fatigue are real. It’s not just about loving Hope; it’s about demonstrating empathy (constantly); managing our life as a therapeutic case; navigating big and little decisions that may have triggering effects; always being anxious waiting for the other shoe to drop after stumbling over a trigger.

It is exhausting for both of us. Hope can sleep for hours and hours sometimes. I know that part of it is that her young body is run down and exhausted from fighting her own fight/flight response to life. I know the other part is just coping with the overwhelming sadness that she lives with.

On the weekends I am eager to resume my old life of running errands, hitting the gym, spending the afternoons and evenings doing something fun. I end up running the errands that I have to in order to keep the house running; taking Yappy to the dog park and waiting to see if I can help Hope get herself together. By evenings, I’m emotionally done and I don’t even feel like I’ve done anything.

We might’ve tried a new restaurant or rented but didn’t watch the Redbox movie I picked up in hopes of having some fun family time.

The reality is that a happy house is a rare scene around these parts. It’s about trying to survive and fighting to push the clouds of sadness away.

I hear that the hormonal part will settle down in another year or two; I hope so. Self-care helps with my ability to cope, but living with this level of stress is tough. It is exhausting. It is depressing.

So we both end up sharing her trauma. It ends up being cloudy and sad for both of us. I look forward to a day when it won’t be so overwhelming for Hope, that the depression she feels won’t consume her life, when so many things won’t be triggering.  When that happens for Hope, it know it will happen for me too.


Competition Pains

So this happened this week.

20160607_110919I had hand surgery on Monday, and I’m dictating this post (ain’t technology grand?). I’m in this pretty impressive bandage until next Tuesday. If you can’t see it, the bandage also covers my thumb, and as it goes, you actually do need your thumb for a lot of stuff, like a lot of stuff.

So, I’m laid up a good portion of this week.

The upside? I actually needed the downtime. There’s something wrong with your life force when you actually look forward to anesthesia sleep.  So I cancelled a few things on my calendar. Used dictation to remain somewhat productive and lowered my expectations of myself.

I actually took a nap today, and let me tell you, that ish was deeeeelicious! Yappy and I got back in bed and snoozed for a good hour and it almost briefly lived up to my fantasy of napping on white bedding with the perfect temperature and the ceiling fan whirling at mid-speed.

I’m wearing comfy, flowy clothes since I have time pulling up pants or clasping undies. So I’m just “free.”

So, aside from the hand/thumb situation (and the plastic bag I need to wear in the shower) I’m resting, snuggling with Yappy, and being nice and comfy.

And then there’s Hope.

You know, I proudly admit my petty, but seriously, Hope’s need for attention is just so extra sometimes that it really provokes my next level pettiness and that’s hard to manage. I’ve got a big arse cast and now she’s complaining about how her wrist hurts, how she can’t use her hands, how she’s suffering.

I swear, I can’t have a friggin few days to be the “catered to invalid.” She’s actually worse than she was 7 months ago with my last surgery. The narcissism is strong around these parts.

Hope hardly does chores, but my requests to walk Yappy are met with the usual teen “ugh’s” despite seeing how he jerks me on walks and how that not only causes me pain, but could mess up my surgical bandaging.

We ran into a neighbor this morning who asked me how my recovery was going; Hope jumped in and shared how her arm was greatly pained and that she really needed the offered prayers more than me. The neighbor gave me a WTH look and I just rolled my eyes.

At tutoring, she insisted that she was just in too much pain to hold a pencil.

Really girl?

Oh, I get it, I do. I get that she is a serious thirst trap for attention right now. I have finally realized that she really just wants to be around me—even if she insists on being a pain in the arse. I get that she can be a bottomless pit of need and that we are currently inhabiting the pit. But damn, can I get a few days? Can you bring me some damn beans and rice? Can you ask how I’m feeling?

Hey, how about you not compete with me on pain levels when I have on a frigging cast?

A CAST, GOSH DARN IT. A FRIGGING CAST!!!!

Seriously, I am in a fight for attention, and apparently sympathy, with my daughter…except that I’m not. She’s in this competition alone.

I finally get forced self-care; seriously, I let things get so crazy that the only way I will stop, drop and rest is to have a surgeon cut into and all around my effing wrist. Can I enjoy the lovely time to rest with a slight, but delightful medically-induced haze in peace?

Can you just walk the dog without me having to play along like I’m going to take you to the emergency room to have your wrist looked at?

Can I just live?

Damn.

I am so annoyed, and while I totally get why she is so self-centered and why it is hard for her to consistently demonstrate empathy, it doesn’t mean that I don’t get totally pissy and petty about it. I still love her like mad, but she can take her competition pains and shove it.


Serenity in Short Bursts

I’ve really, really, really been focused on maintaining calm in the household for the last week.  And you know, it works. I have let Hope’s stank attitudes about various things just roll off me like water. I’ve very calmly let her know when she has crossed certain lines and what certain expectations are. The energy I would usually expend being emotional with Hope, I’ve transferred into dedicated self-care.

I’ve exercised every day. I made it to bed one night at 9:30pm. I ate healthy. I enjoyed the sunshine taking Yappy to the dog park.

It’s been a peaceful week; well kinda.

Hope told a whopper this week (she even lies like a little kid); I busted her and punished her.

I also signed Hope up for a commercial tutoring program this week.  I did not spring this on her. I told her; we went to the initial assessment last weekend.  When I told her how this would affect her weekly schedule; she lost her ish. She was furious; I just let her be, but she gave off some nasty energy with her icy silent treatments.

Through it all, I remained serene. It was all good.

And then, this morning, the third morning in which Hope dragged arse in the morning. The thought of her missing the bus (again) and cutting into my workout (me) time made me hit my limit. I mean…I just couldn’t do the calm thing again. I lit right into her.

And she was ready with full on teen attitude.

She still had attitude later at the orthodontist. And I had no serene patience for her.

I’m realizing that I did pretty good for keeping it chill for a whole week. It gave me some perspective; I had time and energy to invest in myself. I felt better. I slept better.

Trying to keep things calm around here is a good goal; there are going to be flares and I have to accept that and know that it’s normal. I mean, really my blow up with still so much less intense than usual. My try for this month is really going to be to focus on parenting with calmness. I gotta believe that Hope will benefit from it, but honestly, I am doing it for me.

I need more serenity—and it’s not about knowing the difference about change vs. no change; it’s really about me having a sense of calmness and happiness. That’s my goal. I want to be happy. Parenting is hard. I told someone it’s the greatest bait and switch that ever existed.

You have the amazing drive to procreate and/or raise a child healthily and with your values and so much goodness. That drive is all about you, really. The reality is parenting is about constant sacrifice. It often is thankless and a lot of time, it’s chaotic.

For Hope and me, it’s always had a sense of chaos, and I’m tired of it. No mas. No mas.

I am seeking serenity and happiness in this life chapter, and that means that I need to step up, breathe and exhale into this like a complicated yoga pose that requires you to clear your mind and just open your heart.

It kinda hurts so good.

This evening it is back to calmness and a focus on how long can I stay in that space.


Thoughts on Coping with Learning Issues

Here’s the deal. I’m dyslexic.

I uptake information best by hearing, speaking and doing—but not necessarily all at the same time. In fact, as I get older, I get more easily overwhelmed by external stimuli.

I was not diagnosed until I was a freshman in college; I miserably failed a biology exam although I knew the information.  The professor took pity on me and allowed me to take it untimed in his office with some assistance. I aced it, and immediately went to be tested for a learning disability.

I used to love, I mean LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, reading. I don’t as much anymore.  This last bought of graduate school pretty much killed that.

I mean, I still enjoy reading, but it takes me forever to get through a book for pleasure now. I’m more apt to go pull scholarly literature and read it.

Now, this is in part because I’m a huge nerd. But it is a coping mechanism for me.

Scholarly lit should have: an abstract, an intro, a lit review, a methodology description, study findings, a discussion and a conclusion.

My brain knows what to expect, and I can more easily string together copious amounts of information that may seem unrelated.  And to be clear, I uptake massive amounts of info, and when it’s in my brain, it is IN MY BRAIN and available for calling up and cross-referencing.

I also like statistics.

Yes, I am a nerd, but I like numeric patterns. I’ve taught myself over the years to *see* the patterns and be able to relate large data sets with each other.

I was listening to a podcast recent about how fellow dyslexics tend to have jumbled brain operating systems, but we are amazeballs at reorganizing data so that it makes sense to us.  We tend to be a pretty creative bunch.

If I were a computer, it’d be like I was a cute computer with a flash memory—takes forever to upload, but when it does, it’s there baby!

Since becoming a parent, life has become more…complicated. Complication can be pretty distressing for those of us who learn differently—which includes me and Hope, who is ADHD.

For me, this has manifested as a rigid, rabid-like adherence to evidence based studies on issues that we deal with at home. A lot of books while based on research cite too little of it and are organized in such a way I simply cannot process them.

Don’t worry, I’m like this at work too. You want to piss me off in the office?  Say the phrase, “Best Practices” and have NO research or data to substantiate that it is indeed a best practice. It brings out the worst in me. Partly because I’m an advocate of quality research, but more selfishly because I have trouble processing random “ish we do.”

(Now, don’t ask me why I like to write so much when I’ve got all this going on. I write for work, the blog and the podcast—not sure how it all works in my brain, but for some reason it does. Go figure. Thank you Spell Check and Grammarly.)

The last parenting book that I stumbled through, Hope and I raged, fought, mutually dropped Eff bombs and I had to call the emergency hotline with my agency because it was such a mess.  Um, yeah, I really don’t do parenting books anymore; they get lost in translation.

I’ve been really struggling with coping with this form of difference lately; I imagine that Hope has as well—I know she has. I’m starting to do a lot more skimming about coping with learning issues in hopes of finding some evidence based recommendations that might meet us both where we are.

I’m grateful for the recent recommendations about Brene Brown—I’m waiting for the audio version of her books to become available at the library since I *know* there’s no sense in my lying and saying I’m going to read them.

In the meantime, the recommendation has helped me discover a nice treasure trove of literature about shame, parenting, adolescence, trauma and the larger philosophy of shame and its role and process in emotional development. There’s some interesting stuff out there, like if we experience moral shame we are likely to be willing to resist avoidance and be willing to apologize, but with image shame we are pissed, avoid and refuse to acknowledge our issues at all. Interestingly, guilt isn’t at play with these two types of shame (there are at least 2 other kinds of shame); so guilt trips are never going to work.  Our own shame coupled with other emotions impact how we accept apologies.

Seriously it’s interesting stuff, so thanks for the Brené Brown recommendation; she’s interesting, but there’s some really awesome research going on in this area that speaks to me.

So, resources…holla at me with YouTube videos, audiobooks and scholarly research for how to manage ADHD, ODD, teen drama, older child adoptive drama…ya know…all the good drama stuff.


Hopefulness in 2015

I’m glad that 2015 is coming to a close. It’s been a good, but tough year, and these last few months have left me feeling emotionally spent.

I have changed a lot this year. I’ve learned a lot about myself. I have developed better skills in a number of areas. I’m aware of shortcomings and areas I need to work on, even if I haven’t really begun the process of working on them.

It’s easy when you are going through a reflective period to pick yourself apart as you examine all your faults.

I have spent many hours replaying things in my mind, heavy sighing and shaking my head as I contend with my shortcomings and perceived failures. I often feel like I’m failing at this mother thing; I am realizing that all parents wish they were doing better, even if what they are doing is their best.

I spend hours replaying how I might’ve kept my temper and my mouth in better check with Hope as we’ve head butted worse than a couple of rams in the last few months.

I’ve mourned the life I envisioned and at times discounted the life I have because sometimes it’s just…hard.

I haven’t acknowledged how I have pulled together a support circle, instead of still sitting around waiting for validation from individuals from whom it may never come.

I’ve focused at lot on the struggle rather than the triumphs, and there have been triumphs. I put together our holiday video card during the last week and I had a grand time picking out pictures for the montage. There were definitely triumphs.

I’ve seen my daughter start to grow socially.

I’ve been able to keep a level head and not freak out when things reached critical points.

I kicked arse at work this year.

I focused less on weight and more on health.

I made time for fun.

I improved on my ability to let anger go more quickly.

Nothing major fell through the cracks.

I sustained a healthy, loving relationship with Elihu, and he and Hope finally met, allowing me the ability to integrate bits of my life together.

I activity sought help when I needed it.

Moment to moment, I did my best, even if it wasn’t *the* best for the situation.

I did ok this year.

And I’m hopeful for next year.

I’m hopeful that I will be a better person and a better mom.

I hope that Hope and I will work through our attachment issues that threaten us both so much.

I’m hopeful that I can continue to marshal the resources to help Hope be her best self.

I’m hopeful that Yappy will get over his separation anxiety.

I’m hopeful that my confidence in my home life begins to mirror my confidence at work.

I’m hopeful that maybe Hope and I can get a little closer to the visions that we had for mother and daughter.

I’m hopeful that I will focus more on triumphs and less on failures.

I’m hopeful for just…better.

And it will be better.


Better

Ahhhhh, this week has been…good.

Sometimes I find myself crawling to Friday evenings. I’m tired, worn out and emotionally drained. This week, I’m happy to report, I only felt tired and worn out.

I wasn’t emotionally drained!  In fact there were many more moments this weekend when I thought, “THIS is what I thought life would be like as a mom!!”

I haven’t had a week like this in a while. I needed it. Hope needed it.

Ahhhhh. Inhale…exhale.

So what was different about this week?

I colored. I colored a lot. It really is meditative; it is calming and my tolerance for everything is a bit higher when I color. Of course, I’m coloring so much that I’m worried about my healing hand…repetitive movements are probably not all that great post-op for carpal tunnel. #whatever

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I was in bed by 10, 10:30 at the latest. Sleep is restorative, and Yappy is a precious cuddle bug.

I worked out everyday. Fitbit challenges have me going hard daily! I’m hitting 5-6 miles of steps a day.  That’s definitely contributed to good headspace.

I felt good after seeing friends and family over Thanksgiving.

I realized that I’m not alone on this journey.

Hope and I stayed away from meat this week after she announced her desire to go vegetarian recently. I didn’t eat much meat before Hope came along, so two years of hardcore carnivorous behavior has wreaked havoc on my body. ABM’s bod was much happier being more plant based and Hope LOVED my veggie cooking.

And finally Hope, Yappy and I had quality, real bonding quality time this weekend.

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Family movie night featured Max. Yappy is a fan. 

For once, I took care of myself and committed to meeting my own needs. know that every week won’t be like this, but dang it; I feel like a new person. It’s a powerful reminder that we parents need to practice routine self-care. The absolute bonus was getting a peek at the life I aspire to; it was totally dope!

The other bonus I discovered was that Hope’s behavior was dramatically different after pulling back on the meat. I hope that it continues; I hope it’s sustainable. It was dramatic. She was more focused, more thoughtful, more motivated about school. She was a bit more mellow. Hell, we may never eat meat again! (Hahahahah, just joking, I like bacon way too much.)

One of our weekend movie nights was Inside Out; I wish I’d gone to see it in the theater. If you have or know an adolescent and have any curiosity about the mayhem going on inside their heads emotionally, this is the movie for you. Today we talked a bit about how Hope felt when she moved here to be with me, when she started a new school and just day to day emotional upheaval. Being a teen ain’t easy; being a teen who’s a former long-term foster kid, now adoptee ain’t a walk in the park either. I can’t pretend to get it, but I feel a little closer to getting it and that’s important.

I’m optimistic. I’m going to keep plugging away and hoping that things will settle down for a little while.  It’s nice to have a little less drama during a time known for lots of it.

 


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