Tag Archives: Adoption and Parenting

May 26, 2016

Lessons Learned #8741

By AdoptiveBlackMom

I haven’t officially written about lessons learned while parenting through adoption in many moons. As I sit in a hotel in Michigan this morning I realize that I really learned some cool things in the last few days.

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Business travel is a form of respite. This isn’t really a new lesson, as much as I really need a reminder sometimes. Hope and I actually get along much better when I travel at least once a month for work. It can be such a hassle getting everything in place to go away without a bunch of worry. She’s also a little older now and when I leave she tends to step up a bit more. Seriously, just being in a hotel where I can leave my clothes on the floor (something I don’t do at home) is simply indulgent. Even room service—wow, someone brings me food without kvetching about it. The validation I get after a lecture or a meeting; that’s something I don’t get at home much, so the ego stroke is super nice. I’ve been on the road for 5 of the last 7 days and it’s been marvelous.

Travel also gives me perspective, which is essential.  Back during the first year to 18 months, Hope and I would video chat while I was away. It was fun since we would also download apps that would allow us to draw on each other’s faces and make funny noises and everything. And then, one day, she didn’t want to anymore.

I was sad. I was kinda hurt too.

Every time I head out of town, I ask, “Hey you want to video chat while I’m away?”

“Nope.”

When I was leaving on Friday last week, she said, “Dang mom, you’re coming back!”

It was like a light bulb went off.

Hope knows I’m coming back. She believes I’m coming back. She’s secure in knowing I’m coming back. She doesn’t need to see me, sometimes acts like she doesn’t even need to talk to me, while I’m away, because my daughter who was afraid of being deserted knows I’m coming back.

I smiled because that’s probably the biggest positive development ever—she feels safe, even when I get on her nerves, even when we bicker, even when we yell, even when it all falls down around us, she knows I got her.

I am overwhelmed in trying to figure out how to handle all of this education stuff.  It’s not that I don’t know how; I’m so fortunate to work in education and to have some street cred with the whole doctorate. It’s really that I’m swimming in information. I’ve been doing a lot of reading, a lot of research, trying to figure out strategies might help us, what might help click some things into the right place. Trying to get a plan together is exhausting—who knows what will work.

I’m still not good at patience; I’m still not all that great with figuring out long games versus short wins. I’m still developing those skills, I guess.

Tomorrow I’ll get the latest psychologist report back and start that planning process all over again.

Hope use to groan about all of the appointments and conversations; she doesn’t anymore and I know it’s because she also wants to believe we can figure this life knot out and help try to smooth her path a bit.

I want to believe it too.

Yappy is turning into one of the great loves of my life.  I honestly didn’t think I was capable of loving a pup again the way I loved The Furry One, but my terror of a terrier has wormed his way into my heart. He really is a comforting critter when things are hard, and his attachment to me…it’s probably unhealthy, but gosh, I love that he loves me more. It ain’t right, but it’s real.

You could not pay me to be a teenager again.  I remember these years—they are coming back to me because really, I had banished it from my memory—these years kinda sucked. I mean, there were some awesome times with my best girlfriends and all the football games, the sports I played, the fellas I pined after and/or dated. But the insecurity, the hormone swings, the drama, so much drama. The boys and what I liked about them and what made me dislike them.

Over dinner out this evening, Hope was telling me about some boy in her band section that she must’ve had a 15 minute crush on. She went on to say how the crush abruptly ended when she saw him sleeping ugly on the charter bus on the spring band trip.

What, that’s it? That’s all he did?  He slept ugly?

Yep, that’s what did him in.

I start scrolling through my phone pics, “You mean like this one? Or this one? Or what about this one?”{all pics of Hope sleeping less than ‘pretty’.}

“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!”

I’m also reliving a good portion of this developmental phase because Hope loves to talk. Now, I’m incredibly grateful that she does talk to me and that she wants to talk to me, but some of this ish is so utterly ridiculous that I actually feel precious brain cells slipping away.

It is hard feigning interest after say, the first 45 minutes of really trying to follow along.

Dear Holy Homeboy, help us all. Teenager-dom is hard work. Hard, hard work that is sucking my brain through a small, painful straw.

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So, the lessons are always coming, even when I don’t write about them! We are on the upswing and this time apart is giving us both an opportunity to breathe, think and reflect.

4 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Lessons Learned

November 19, 2015

Communication Problems

By AdoptiveBlackMom

When I was in elementary school I was enrolled in a program called TAG. It was a program for “gifted” (yeah, right) kids who needed a bit more intellectual stimulation to nurture them. For the first couple of years it was cool; TAG was fun.  We did lots of puzzles, logic games, stock market games, brain teasers and the like. By the time I got to middle school TAG was a drag. I was being pulled out of my classes to go, and the activities weren’t really entertaining anymore. They felt more like work.

The big kicker, though, was that being in TAG in middle school made me different; it put me firmly in the “nerd” social caste, which was akin to being untouchable unless someone wanted to copy your homework.

Nerd coming this way!NERD ALERT!

I enjoyed writing even back then. So, I wrote a pretty passive-aggressive play for the fall festival. It was all about how TAG had become socially stigmatizing for me, how I hated it, and that I really didn’t want to go anymore.

My TAG teacher was basically like, “Oh, ok….sooooo, you want us to perform *this* play at the fall festival?”

Yep.

In hindsight, I’m guessing that she probably called my parents to give them a heads up that I was using my “talent” to say “Screw this program, I’m dunzo!”

My parents sat and watched the play that fall night, and we drove home in near silence. I don’t know if they were embarrassed or proud or what they were feeling, but I distinctly remember the energy in the car being kind of thick. Frankly, I’d gone through all of the trouble of writing a play, convincing my teacher that I wanted to do it and dragging some classmates into the performance—I wanted a response dang it.

I got one.

Eventually Dad said something like, “Sooooo, you don’t want to go to TAG anymore? You could have just said so. You don’t have to go anymore.”

And that was the end of TAG.

Looking back all those years, I don’t know why I couldn’t just tell my folks I wanted to quit the program. I just remember that talking to them didn’t even really seem like a viable option to getting to my desired goal.

I also don’t remember considering whether they might be embarrassed by my elaborate “messaging.” In many ways we’re a down to earth family, but I’ve always, always felt like we were concerned with our image. Or maybe it was really just me. My family was very involved in church; I always felt like I needed to behave in a way that would honor their positions for fear someone might see me acting out. I don’t know if that was me or if it really was a family thing, but it was an enormous amount of pressure I put on myself way back when, at such a young age. Ironically, I would never have dreamed of doing that kind of play at our church; gosh, parishioners would have talked about me forever. We couldn’t have them saying bad things about me. Nope.

I’ve carried that pressure to perform with me always, so it’s probably more internally driven, I guess. Achievement means a lot to me; a lot a lot. I have failed, but I’ve succeeded more than I’ve failed—which in hindsight is probably a bad thing.

I live in an area of the US where status is a cultural touchstone. We meet someone new, learn their name and ask what they do for a living. Sure we may be genuinely interested, but many also do some social sorting based on the response.

It’s a rat race of keeping up, at least for me, it’s always been that way. I guess it is hard wired as I describe it here.

So, as a new mom, this image conscious, high achieving, control freak has met her match, and I. Am. Losing.

I can’t even say I fear failure anymore because me and failure are like…BFFs now. Probably not, but it feels like it so it might as well be so.

Every one of my magical super powers of problem solving, Olivia Pope-fixing, being a total badass with a sterling reputation that I prided myself in have all come crashing down like a mirror around me. And I’m sure there’s a black cat somewhere lurking about (no offense to black cats…).

I have internalized the need to “fix” Hope, to be validated as a mom by the people who mean the most to me, to want to feel like I am totally winning at life. And well, I might not be able to do those things and that reality is settling over me such that I seem like a shadow of my former self.

The one thing I want to do the most, help Hope, seems to be the one thing I can’t do. Now intellectually I know that this is a long haul process, and that in the cosmic scheme of things, we *are* winning, but it doesn’t feel like it. And intellectually I know how this is all supposed to work, but see…my imagined reality is soooooo off, it’s not even funny.

I am not ashamed of my little family, on the contrary, I’m so proud of me and Hope and our naughty pup, Yappy, but our success is so radically different than how I saw and defined success before. It’s different than how my social and professional circles defined success. It’s like I tripped and fell into an alternative universe.

I’m on Star Trek, and well…I never really was into Star Trek.

It’s so different and hard to describe and explain that it’s easier to be somewhat self-isolating rather than to try to build bridges back to my pre-mom life.

Right now, I can’t keep up with the Jones’ of my pre-mom life, and so I feel like I’m slowly drifting away from so many of those connections. I am so insecure about how my new brand of success will be viewed. It’s awful, and it’s really not fair. It feels so very shallow because I am giving up on relationships, things, people that were once important to me because I can’t fix my mouth to just explain that my life is so different now, and I need people, I need emotional connections, I need reassurance, I need to get my cup filled. I’m guessing it’s probably offensive to my dear friends because I have convinced myself that they just won’t understand.

Oh, look there’s that self-loathing again!

I’m going through a lot of mental and social gymnastics rather than just calling up pals and saying,

“Hey, how are you? I miss you. My life is so different now,

you really cannot imagine,

no, really, you have NO EFFIN IDEA!

I don’t want to bore you to tears with the ups and downs

(besides I might breakdown in tears, snot and whatnot),

but there are massive ups and downs and some days it’s just soul crushing,

mind-erasing, and earth shattering in good and bad ways,

and I don’t feel like I can talk about it because so many folks

(but not everyone) assume it’s just “Add Water and Stir.”

I could really use a bourbon; don’t you want a bourbon too?

Can we grab a drink and catch up?

Yeah, I’ll bring Hope next time, but right now,

I just need some grown folks’ time to hang out like we used to…”

Instead, I’m writing 1300 word essays that echo a “quit” play I wrote in 6th grade.

Sigh.

At least I’m consistent, right? Consistency is supposed to be good for parenting…Ha!

Local peeps…if you’re reading, get at ya girl because I’m not sure I can break out of my rut to reach out first.

He Ain’t Heavy by Gilbert Young

9 Comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Dealing with the Past, Finalization Life, Hard Stuff, Lessons Learned, Uncategorized

October 19, 2015

Perfect Parenting

By AdoptiveBlackMom

There isn’t such a thing, right?

Right.

And yet, many parents aspire to be perfect, or at least good. Before I became a parent to Hope, I was a hopeless perfectionist. My control freakdom tendencies lead me down some dark paths at times, but I also attribute my personal success to a mix of blessings, dumb luck, and hard work characterized by a need to control as many variables as I could manage.

I can’t say I like problems, but I like and pride my ability to solve them. For much of my life, I’ve been pretty good at it. A lot of my identity has been tied up in the pride of figuring stuff out and making things happen.

And then I became a parent.

Holy ish.

Oh, and I became an adoptive parent to a kid who had endured many more of life’s hardships than I care to think about.

My earliest parenting moves were scrutinized by social workers. They were also scrutinized by numerous people in my life, and all of these people had the best of intentions. And all of these people had opinions, and many of these people didn’t mind sharing them.

It was a lot to hear and a lot to absorb.

More than a few parents shared their thoughts, even though there was little experience about parenting a kid who had experienced the kinds of things my new daughter had. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to manage my own emotional response to what I perceived as folks “not getting it” and feeling strangely tiny. I felt small because all these experienced parents around me giving me advice seemed to have figured things out and yet I felt like no solutions worked for me. The lack of ability to problem solve and/or control anything was devastating.

Add in the wicked adjustment period for Hope that included some really tough behaviors, and I swear I wonder how either of us survived.

I wrote a lot during those early days and months. Some of the frustrations I expressed in my blog, well, I probably wouldn’t do the same way in retrospect, but it is what it is.  I own it in all its truth.

In those days, the parenting problems were endless, new, overwhelming, devastating…and I had no control over what had been a pretty carefully constructed life and well, persona.

The feelings were new, raw, scary, terrifying actually.  Not only did I feel like crap, I felt like I was actually crap, identity-wise.

I found that my problem solving skills worked, but instead of being able to create a way out, I had to choose from a set of options, none of which seemed appealing, and pray that something brought some kind—any kind—of peace.

It rarely seemed to bring peace.

I quickly learned in those days that perfection would forever be elusive. I would have to learn to just shoot for great, then it slid to good, then it flirted with just good enough and then there were some days that the goal was to just keep Hope alive (ha! Jesse Jackson pun unintended but apropos).

I did and said things that still offer consequential ripples across my life. Some moments I actually spend a lot of time pondering some of the challenges—real, imagined, and emotional—that dominated the first six months of my life with Hope. I have a few regrets, just a few things that I could’ve and should’ve handled differently, but I look at the foundation that I created for me and Hope and I can say that I got it right.  There isn’t much, given so many challenges, that I would’ve done differently.

Fast forward 18 months and I fear I criticize or second guess myself so much more than I did at the very beginning. I mean, I know I didn’t know what I was doing then; now it seems like I should have more of a clue.

I don’t.

Most days I feel like I’m failing more than usual. Not a day goes by when I go, “Well that didn’t go like I thought” or “Could I have done something different? Better” or “FML—that was the best I could come up with?’ I replay the days’ interactions like they are on a DVR. I rarely pat myself on the back. I rarely think I deserve it.

It’s super hard. I constantly have to remember that perfection is impossible. Like everyone else, I’m just trying to do the best I can.

I hope one day to be known for my many accomplishments. I know that Hope will be one of those; hopefully, not because I adopted her, but rather because I raised a triumphant, young warrior who was able to overcome her history and step into a healthy life.  If I can do that or even get really, really close to that, it will be my single greatest achievement.

And I hardly ever feel like it’s possible. It feels like a heavy lift that is often too much to bear.  It’s hard. It’s heavy. It’s lonely. It’s traumatic.

It’s…so very hard some days.

But I guess it doesn’t require perfection. It can’t, because perfection simply doesn’t exist, right?

Even though I intellectually know this, I, like so many other parents, will continue to chase it and fail to find it.

I think if I can truly learn to accept that, it will be my second greatest achievement.

5 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Hard Stuff

October 12, 2015

It’s Ok

By AdoptiveBlackMom

The last couple of years have been an immense journey. I’ve learned so much; I’m sure knowledge is just spilling out of my ears. Each day, week, moment and month bring new lessons about myself, about Hope, about our life together, about parenting and well, about a bunch of other stuff.

This year, I’ve had the pleasure of befriending a number of other adoptive parents. We share our struggles. We cry together. We whisper on the phone while hiding from our kids and slurping wine on a stool in our showers with the curtain drawn. We’ve problem solved. We’ve pep talked. We’ve planned trips together.

I’m blessed to have these folks in my life.

I was thinking during a call this week about something I usually tell folks in the midst of crisis; it’s something that they tell me too.

It’s going to be ok.

We rarely know how it’s going to be ok, but we just know that somehow, hopefully, it will be ok.

And it usually ends up being ok.

Sometimes we all just need to know that our struggles are ok; they just are. So, this post is an open letter to parents of all stripes, but especially my fellow APs, foster parents and parents that are roughing it.

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It’s ok to be mad.

It’s ok to not understand what the heck is going on in your house.

It’s ok, to have that glass of wine in the evening (unless there’s a medical/emotional reason not to).

It is ok to occasionally drink wine from a tumbler.

It’s ok to plan and practice self-care.

It’s ok to believe that eating tater tots and lucky charms with wine in your bedroom counts as self-care.

It’s ok to be tired, nay, exhausted.

It’s ok to be annoyed by all the activities.

It’s ok to foster the puppy’s affection for you because you need some unconditional love too.

It’s ok to go shopping alone so you don’t have to share.

It’s ok to feel like maybe you can’t do parenting.

It’s ok to feel ambivalent about parenting all together.

It’s ok to totally give up on parenting and then change your mind 15 minutes later.

It’s ok to cry.

It’s ok to cry daily.

It’s ok to ask your doctor if there’s something that might help you stop crying all the time.

It’s ok to call in sick after the kids have gone to school that you can have a mental health day.

It’s ok to think parenting books are full of it.

It’s ok for your foster care/adoption halo to be tarnished or missing because it fell of the pedestal you got put on.

It’s ok to feel sorry/not sorry about pulling away from friends and family who don’t understand why your family would be experiencing challenges.

It’s ok to find new friends who “get” what you’re experiencing.

It’s ok to mourn the loss of those previous relationships even if you think those people sometimes acted like buttheads.

It’s ok to cry for your child.

It’s ok to cry for everything they’ve loss.

It’s ok to cry for every reason why adoption ended up being their path.

It’s ok to cry for every reason why adoption ended up being your path.

It’s ok to cry because it comes with challenges that you feel ill equipped to manage.

It’s ok to go back to your doctor for a medication adjustment for all the crying.

It’s ok when you make unpopular decisions that are right for your family, even if they are hard for you.

It’s ok to momentarily admit that the challenges seem so insurmountable that you consider just turning back and giving up.

It’s ok to not celebrate the fact that you trudged on and worked through it because you simply don’t have time to get yourself a cupcake for doing what you were going to do anyway.

It’s ok to be mad at God for even allowing the need for you to be in this kid’s life like this.

It’s ok to be mad at God because it’s so hard.

It’s ok to recognize that anger masks sadness.

It’s ok to be mad when the people around you who are verbally supportive aren’t really supportive.

It’s ok to hate lip service and its best friend hypocrisy.

It’s ok to leave spaces that aren’t healthy or safe or supportive of and for your family, and this includes churches and other family members.

It’s ok to get help for secondary trauma.

It’s ok to get help for coping with everything.

It’s ok if you find one day that you go to therapy alone just to have a safe place to cry and vent and *then* you go to family therapy or trot your kids to their appointments.

It’s ok if your version of therapy is occasionally eating a double chocolate iced donut in your tub with the shower curtain pulled closed—alone.

It’s ok to wonder if you’ll get your life back.

It’s ok to think about the need to forgive yourself for inviting unique challenges into your life.

It’s ok to recognize that your family’s triumphs look different.

It’s ok, more than ok, to celebrate all of your family’s triumphs whether anyone else believes they are noteworthy or not.

It’s ok to beg off the comparisons against “normal” families.

It’s ok to sigh and roll your eyes a lot in your head because people say dumb ish.

It’s ok to be pissed when you are subjected to foster care and adoption related microaggressions.

It’s ok to be happy with a C, when your child worked so hard and was below grade level when he came to live with you.

It’s ok to be frustrated about all sorts of foster/adoptive kid things like hoarding, executive function, night terrors, defiance, RAD and feel like you can’t breathe a word of it to your friends because they just wouldn’t understand.

It’s ok to lean into an online community of similarly situated parents who “get your struggle.”

It’s ok, despite what your tell your kids about online relationships, to know that *your* online folks are great cheerleaders and, over time, friends.

It’s ok to feel like it will take forever to find your parenting “tribe.”

It’s ok to mourn with like-minded folks, to celebrate with them, to ask for advice, to just shoot the breeze.

It’s ok to see the world differently once you become a parent, and to be both happy and disappointed.

It’s ok to look forward to work travel as an opportunity to peek back at your old life.

It’s ok to look forward to the end of a trip because you miss your family and can’t wait to get home to your personal brand of crazy.

It’s ok to feel disillusioned by all the boogeymen in the world that take the shapes of gun violence, police brutality, racism, sexism, homophobia…and the list goes on.

It’s ok to listen to adoptees, to hear their voices.

It’s ok to allow the adoptee voice to shape how you approach meeting your kids’ needs and how you decide to help them shape their life experiences.

It’s ok to believe that adoptees have something incredibly meaningful to contribute to foster care and adoption conversations.

It’s ok to believe that everyone’s feelings in the adoption triad are legit and not be threatened by that.

It’s ok to feel joy in parenting.

It’s ok to see how much everyone in your family evolves and changes.

It’s ok to celebrate every little and big achievement.

It’s ok.

It’s ok, really, to just try your best, to be…ok.

7 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Hard Stuff, Lessons Learned

October 1, 2015

The Tooth Fairy

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Every now and then, Hope and I get an opportunity to have an experience that we both missed along the way. In not birthing a child or adopting an infant or even a toddler, I missed the opportunity to play the Tooth Fairy. For any number of reasons, Hope missed receiving a gift from the Tooth Fairy.

Today Hope had two wisdom teeth extracted. I asked the dentist to give me the teeth.  I don’t have any of Hope’s baby teeth, so…asked for these big arse, rooted teeth.

It’s moments like these that are both so much fun and bittersweet.

The idea of us getting to live out our own little Tooth Fairy is charming.

Hope asked what wisdom teeth might be worth.

This is bittersweet because we talked oh so briefly about how the Tooth Fairy had never come to visit Hope, and that made me sad. Very sad.

In spite of that sadness, Hope and I are curled up on the couch, watching Netflix while she groans in pain, while I wonder why she is still awake after taking a Tylenol #3. #iwasplanningonnappingmyself

If she ever falls asleep, I’ll print out her cell phone bill and scrawl, “Paid in Full” across it.

This Tooth Fairy doesn’t carry much cash and those were some big arse teeth.

2 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in Dealing with the Past, Finalization Life

September 9, 2015

Mama

By AdoptiveBlackMom

On Christmas Eve nearly two years ago, Hope called me “mom” for the first time. It was the most precious gift I could have ever received since it was entirely her choice to call me mom instead of my given name.

I love the sound of her calling me mom. It’s become so routine, so natural now that I almost take it for granted.

And then something reminds me that mom, and other names or terms of endearment, are Hope’s little presents to me. I don’t know if she knows they are presents, but they really are.

In moments when Hope and I are really connected and things are good, she calls me mama.

On nights like tonight, when I’ve been out to a group meeting talking about this adoption journey and I call her on my way home to check in and see if she needs anything, she answers the phone excitedly, “Hi mama,” and I smile.

I know she’s excited I’m on my way home. I know she’s fine, but she missed me. I know she loves me. I know she’s been thinking about me.

I know that no matter the funky BS we may have been going through, she loves me.

Mama is music to me.

Mama reminds me that we’ll be ok.

I hope to be worthy of being called mama every day by my daughter. Most of the time I feel unworthy. Like a lot of parents I fret over whether I’m doing any of this parenting well at all or if I’m just really, really effing everything up and failing miserably.

I guess I’m doing ok. I’ve had a string of mamas this week. I’ll take that as some validation.

Tomorrow, I’ll try to earn this epic term of endearment again.

I think I can.

I think I can.

6 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in Finalization Life

September 6, 2015

Beauty and the Beast

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Houston, we have a problem. I might’ve mentioned recently, the Hope has started sneaking food again, but I probably didn’t mention that she has generally stopped eating lunch. She’s stopped eating lunch at lunch, but still wants me to pack her a lunch. Usually, Hope will wait to pick through her lunch at home in the evenings and snarf the bits she likes and leave the bits that she doesn’t.

It drives me nuts for so many reasons. I get up early to pack lunches that often don’t get eaten. I buy snacks that last only about half the time they are supposed to, and I find food wrappers all over the place because despite my constant exhortations, Hope leaves wrappers strewn about and/or stuffed in her clothing and desk drawers.

This thing of Hope’s—the sneaking, hoarding and lack of cleanliness—seems to be a mixture of food security issues and teenage junk food cravings and nastiness.

Hope is my lovely Beauty in this story.

Yappy is the beast.

Our lovely little terrier mix is a hunter-gatherer. He has an absurdly strong nose and can root out possible food treats like we’ve been starving him and he’s about to have his Last Supper with the Holy Homeboy. Typically we ban Yappy from entering Hope’s room because of his hunting/gathering desires. One of personal highlights is when Hope leaves the door open to her room; he has that rare opportunity to hunt for treasure.

I bet you can see where this story is going…

Recently, I found chunks of a three day old chicken sandwich under my bed. Yappy had sought out the food from Hope’s open lunch box on her floor, dragged it to my room, dispatched with the cling wrap and tried to devour the old sandwich. Of course it made him sick.

Just awesome.

I found these lovely presents under my bed (aka Yappy’s Lair) while fishing him out to put him in his crate for the night.

Me: Hope did you put a sandwich in your trash can?

Hope: No.

Me: Did you put food wrappers in your trash can? (She’s not allowed because of the risk of bugs and because Yappy roots through her trash).

Hope: Nope.

Sigh.

I clean the mess under the bed.

I open the door to Hope’s room. I find the remnants of last week’s lunch and wrappers. Oh and the trash is full of wrappers.

Sigh.

Me: Hope, there are wrappers in the trash and all over the floor.

Hope: Oh, I forgot.

Me: Hope, your lunch from last week is strewn about the floor.

Hope: Bad Dog.

Me: Bad Hope and bad dog. You lied and you left food out.

Hope: (not meaning it) Sorry.

We have worked on the food stuff in therapy. We have had brief periods of dormancy. I have tried calm responses. I have tried outrage. I have given consequences, I have pitched fits, I have taken to just cleaning her room myself on a regular basis because it seems she can’t or won’t. I have even tried banning food in the room, but she always finds a way—I think she gets up at night to sneak food. I’m wondering if I’m going to have to move all the snack food to my closet so they are inaccessible. But that doesn’t solve the messiness or the Beast’s treasure hunts.

I’m not sure what else to do. The next stop seems to be full on food poisoning leading to a vet visit along with an infestation of pests.

I really need a vacation.

Suggestions [not for the vacation; for the Beauty and the Beast problem]?????

10 Comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in Dealing with the Past, Finalization Life, Hard Stuff

August 17, 2015

Style Evolution

By AdoptiveBlackMom

I am a girlie girl.  I wear mostly dresses or skirts. I love make up and usually put at least a little on every day.  I have a nice collection of jewelry, costume and good stuff.  I like shoes.  I doing my hair; well, it’s short again, but I enjoy the process of ensuring that it flatters my features.

I love being a woman, and I love being girlie.

Hope revels in being a bit of a tomboy.

I realized this weekend that the tomboy thing kinda bugs me.  Not really sure why, maybe because I was hoping she’d want to emulate me?  Not really, but maybe; I dunno.  I guess it could be that I never really thought about having a girl before Hope came along. Like many waiting parents, birth and adoptive, I just *knew* what I was going to get!!! A boy!! I swore I was going to adopt a boy.

And then Hope came into my life, and I couldn’t believe that I ever thought I would have had a boy.  I suppose it was then that the fantasy of manis and pedis with ruffles and sparkly feathers took up residence in my mind’s eye.

But alas, there are no ruffles and there are no sparkles to be seen anywhere.

I realized as we were school shopping during the last couple of weeks that Hope and I aren’t even in the same hemisphere when it comes to fashion.

Hope is still the round the way girl that I met almost two years ago. She can typically be found in jeans, a t-shirt, men’s high tops and not a stitch of jewelry, except maybe a name necklace Aunt M gave her earlier this summer.  She has a couple of dresses and reserves them for special occasions.  I finally convinced her to get a pair of black flats earlier this year. For the most part, she stays right in that fashion zone of non-fussy jeans and tees. I suppose I should be happier about that.  At least I’m not throwing clothes at her to put on, amirite?

Hope will be starting high school in a few weeks, and we’ve been out at the stores for two weekends in a row.  I find myself wandering through the stores, fantasizing about the cool outfits that Hope would look so fantastic in—seriously, she has a body most of us would kill for!  She hovers between a 4 and an 8 depending on the store.  The waist is a loose 4 while the hips are a comfy 6/8, so I occasionally have to have her jeans altered.  She’s tall and lanky with the body of a model and I desperately want to dress her.

And invariably, my daughter goes to items—colors, fabrics, prints, designs–that make me recoil. Like…Wha?  You actually want to wear that?  Outside?  With other people who can actually see you? With no invisibility cloak?????

I’ve taken to rarely offering much commentary because we quickly devolve into bickering.  Also, I found myself considering offering some comments this weekend based on whether or not the outfit would make her look cute for new potential crushes—and I totally put the brakes on that comment flying out of my mouth.  Since when did I, a devout feminista, have thoughts of encouraging my daughter to dress to make her look cute for the teen boys at her school.

What in the entire hell is happening to me??? Am I really that desperate for a style evolution that I will just throw my principles out the window for a cute pair of low heels and a flirty skirt?

(For the record, she would’ve really looked cute in the ensemble…if she had just given it a chance.)

Younger cousins counsel me that Hope is likely on the precipice of a style evolution, what with starting a new school and all. I hope so. But I also hope that we’ll be able to have fun shopping. Shopping is sooooo no fun.  I don’t want to earn mommy stripes by bickering about clothes or anxiously chewing on my cheek because I. CANNOT. BELIEVE. WHAT. SHE. IS PICKING. OUT.

And I suppose when I really think back I don’t have much room to talk.  I vaguely remember some jeans that had a bright aqua panel of lace down the sides of the legs and on the pockets. And, um, there *may* have been a matching jacket…I honestly can’t remember if I got the jacket or not.  My gentle sensibilities might’ve thought it was too much, what with all the neon aqua and all.

<eyeball roll at my own foolery>

In the midst of all of this, I think about how much things have changed in Hope’s “style” over 20 months.  At the time of placement there was a sweatshirt that I practically had to steal from her every few days to ensure that it was included in the laundry.  The outfits underneath were the always the same (jeans and tees), but everything was covered up by that sweatshirt.  She often wouldn’t even wear a coat; just the sweatshirt. It represented security and the past, things she knew, things she lost…that shirt meant and continues to mean a lot to her even though she hasn’t worn it in probably close to a year.

One day, I just looked up and noticed that she wasn’t wearing it anymore.  She didn’t need it anymore. She let it go. I don’t ever expect it to land in the Goodwill box, but she rarely even pulls it out anymore.

So, I guess Hope will continue to evolve, and I will have to just sit with it and be patient. And I suppose I should just accept it if she’s just a jeans and tee kinda  chick and never evolves past this style choice. Nothing wrong with that I guess. I do hope that at least we can switch to women’s fit t-shirts…they at least look nicer.

I’m going online now to browse something blingy, since I’m also guessing this leaves a little more budget for my own girlie purchases.

12 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Finalization Life, Lessons Learned

August 2, 2015

Natural Consequences

By AdoptiveBlackMom

So, jumping into parenting at the teen phase has taught me countless things, but this post is about one personality quirk of mine in particular.

I am a nag.

I know that my nagging is closely related to my control freakdom.

I nag Hope.

I kinda feel like I have to. She doesn’t do the things I ask when I ask; she barely does chores (even chore money doesn’t motivate her!). The levels of teenage apathy astound me. They are shocking, in part, because my parents never allowed it; so it’s was inconceivable to even consider not listening and responding as an option.

So, I am a nag. I also realize that I have a personality that is just naturally inclined to be naggy.

Surprise! Nagging actually doesn’t seem to be the most effective parenting method. #gofigure I mean, it can be useful, but really, it mostly serves to get me all riled up, and it gets Hope all snarky, and then I fantasize about putting her ish out on the balcony.

I want Hope to be successful, and I know that there are times when I really do have to help her because 1) she’s a kid and 2) she has some challenges that really require my help. All that said, I’m tired of being a harpy mom.

For the month of August I am committing to focusing on natural consequences.

  • Oh, you chose to spend your last $6 on an icee at the movie theater after I offered to take you to 7-11 for a $2 slurpee and now you’re mad? Too bad, so sad.
  • Oh, you don’t want to watch a couple videos on sentence diagramming, which you’re supposed to already know? Hmmm, OK.
  • Oh, you’re too busy to read that second book so you can write the report that’s due on the first day of school? Hmmm, well, maybe honors English isn’t for you.
  • Oh, you don’t want to tidy up that apocalypse called your room but you want to invite someone over to hang this weekend? I can’t go for that…no…nooo…no can do.
  • You haven’t meaningfully done chores in 4 weeks but you want to keep your cell phone and you want me to take you to the amusement park? #nope

And on and on, until the break of dawn.

One night this week, in an epic fit of passive, aggressive “helpful” parenting, I logged into her Google calendar and put in every chore, all her activities and appointments along with convenient reminders for every one of them, including the things that she is supposed to do daily. She will be buzzing nonstop between 6:30 and 8pm daily. Do I think I will make much difference? Maybe, maybe not. But I figure by Monday evening when a bunch of them are going off, she will become annoyed and either make different choices than she does now, she will confront me or she will simply be ok with hitting the ignore button.

Elihu tried to get me to use some app that would let me know whether she did something or not. I replied that I didn’t want such a notification. I’d rather *see* her actually doing stuff. I rationalize that the calendar set up alleviates my need to stay on her to do the things she needs to do. If they don’t get done, well, it’s not because she didn’t have reminders.

I’m hopeful, even if a bit naïve. We’ll see, I guess.

Trying to teach Hope some responsibility has been really hard…really hard. I love her so very much. Each day, I do see these challenges of proof that we are getting closer and closer to some sort of normal. Even though it feels like my pressure is through the roof, I know that these are common parenting issues, and that…that is good.

So, for now, I’m really committed to using natural consequences in helping Hope learn some responsibility. The nagging is just too exhausting, and it doesn’t seem to be effective anyway, so here goes!

12 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in Lessons Learned, Teen parenting

July 14, 2015

Seven

By AdoptiveBlackMom

The number 7 is a special number.

Seven is a prime number, and prime numbers are just cool.

There are 7 deadly sins, 7 days of the week, 7 hills in Rome, 7 colors of the rainbow, and 7 major oceans.

There’s 7-11, where I get my Slurpees nearly every day of the summer

There were 7 loaves used by the Holy Homeboy to feed the multitudes; the Holy Homeboy is said to have said 7 things while on the cross.

In Judaism there are 7 days of morning. In Islam there are 7 heavens. In Egyptology 7 is symbolic for eternity.

Seven is considered a number of completion. Seven is a perfect number, a symbol of divine abundance, a symbol of totality.

The number 7 is a special number.

It is also Hope’s emotional age. And as a reminder, Hope’s chronological age is now 14.

I often have to remind myself that 7 is a cool number with so much symbolism. I sometimes find the symbolism in stark contrast to my reality.

The distance between Hope’s emotional age and her chronological age frustrates me. I willfully forget it exists sometimes despite the constant reminders. I have expectations of Hope’s behavior and emotional abilities sometimes that aren’t fair to her emotional age. I struggle with museum visits that take all day because she is catching up on experiences she should have been having 7-10 years ago, but didn’t. I lose patience with her inability to “act” 14 consistently.

Then there are times when I remember that I originally thought I would adopt a child much younger than Hope, a child who might be between the ages of 7 and 10, perhaps. The irony that I get the experience of parenting a child who’s emotional age is in that range is not lost on me. I’ve read stories to Hope at night. We’ve been to a petting zoo, to children museums, to touch ponds…all experiences I know she missed when she was that age. I know that I’m trying to create those experiences for her because she is entitled to them, and she actually needs them, even if her body is much older than her mind.

I have to force myself to remember that seven is a special age. One of my sisters thought she would marry Luke Skywalker when she turned 7; she also thought that she would get her driver’s license at 7. At 7, I remember having one of my very first crushes but when the boy congratulated me on the birth of my youngest sister with a kiss on the cheek, I hauled off and hit him. I was totally in love. My little cousin is currently 7 and she is a delight; the things she says and does are so funny. Seven is such a precious age.

But it doesn’t seem as precious when 7 is housed within 14. At times it actually feels like it is: numerically half the fun. How’s this for fun…I’m 42. I am 6 times Hope’s emotional age…instead of just 3 times Hope’s chronological age.

Yeah, Hope and I are just factors of 7.

I remember reading somewhere that because 7 is the number of completion, the number 8 represents new beginnings and renewal.

I need us to get to number 8. That is my new goal, to get to 8. I can’t even say I remember the substantive differences between 7 and 8, but I know it will be closer to 14. That’s important to me right now.

I know that one day, Hope will catch up. It takes time, which is the one thing I don’t feel like I have sometimes. But time is the one thing she needs to make it happen.

I need that new beginning for her. I need the renewal for me.

I am so over 7.

11 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Dealing with the Past, Finalization Life, Hard Stuff

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