Tag Archives: Adoption Lessons Learned

March 30, 2015

Thoughts on Celebrating Adoption

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Fellow blogger Tao, on TheAdoptedOnes, penned a interesting post on why she can’t celebrate adoption recently.  I love Tao–don’t know if she knows I hold her in such high esteem, but yeah, Tao, ABM loves you!  I have learned so much about adoptees and the adoptee voice from reading her posts; it’s made me think critically about what kind of adoptive mom I want/need to be and what kind of support I must provide my daughter.

Tao starts off this thoughtful post by measuring her words; she knows what she’s about to say might rock some folks’ boat a bit. The recent post challenged me on celebrating my and Hope’s adoption. I was intrigued about the distinction between thankfulness and celebration–being thankful for adoption when necessary but not celebrating its necessity.

I get it.  I totally get it.  And Tao spells it out easy peasy and compellingly.

I have written a lot about all of the people in Hope’s memories who live with us; it really is a case of the good, the bad and the ugly.  Certainly, I wish her birth family had been able to care for her.  I wonder how her mother feels about losing her.  I wonder whether there will be any reconciliation between Hope and her mother or even her extended family.  There’s a lot of messy there, which, of course, is how Hope found herself in need of a home.

I wish she didn’t need me.  Hope herself has said as much; in a perfect world she would have grown up happy and healthy with her parents.

All of that is true.

The path of loss that brought me to adoption is also very real and true. In that parallel perfect universe, I would’ve married the love of my life, birthed some babies, completed my family through adoption and lived a long and happy life.

But none of that had happened when I slid into 40 with a prediction that I’d need a school of engineering to help me conceive and that it was still unlikely I could carry a child to term; oh and a couple of loves in sheep’s clothing had run past and nothing had turned out as I had hoped.

It was only recently that I realized just how much I mourn the loss of the life that never was.  I mourn it deeply.

Yeah, I wish that creating my family through adoption was unnecessary. It wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.

What I’ve learned on this journey is that lots and lots and LOTS of emotions can be felt all at the same time. For much of my life I think I experienced or maybe just acknowledged a dominant emotion at any given time.  But now, two- plus years into this adoption journey, I know that emotions are messy as hell and you can feel dozens of them simultaneously.

I feel devastated about Hope’s life before me.

I feel angry about Hope’s life before me.

I seethe about Hope’s life before me.

I worry about the effects of Hope’s life before me.

I worry about Hope’s future.

I grieve for Hope’s loss.

I grieve for my own loss.

I am furious about my own loss.

I am confused by how things turned out.

I feel betrayed by my body.

I feel feel fury for wasting precious biological time with several jerks I dated for too long.

I feel scared that I won’t ever have the life I desired the way I desire it.

I feel terror that I won’t ever be enough to Hope.

I feel joy that adoption gave me a chance.

I am thankful that Hope and I got each other in the deal.

I feel the struggle of being a single parent.

I feel the struggle of raising a Black child.

I feel the challenge of sorting the the messiness that was Hope’s life before me.

I could go on and on and on and on about my feelings.

I also celebrate adoption.

I celebrate my and Hope’s adoption.

I hate saying I adopted Hope.  The phrase makes it seem like I acquired her when it was so much more than that.  It’s one of the reasons why we like “Gotcha;” Hope and I have concluded that WE got each other in this deal.  We know that the phrase isn’t used that way typically, but we have interpreted in a way that fits us.

I don’t know if we will have a full on celebration on our finalization anniversary in a couple of months. I know we will acknowledge it, likely privately since it’s our thing.

But I know I will celebrate it in my heart. I’m ok with that being an incredibly selfish thing to do and say.  I will also be sad that it was necessary for me and Hope and for Hope’s family.  In that perfect world, our adoption would never have happened.

But here we are.  And we feel all of it, both of us.

And even though Hope is on the other side of our hotel room right now, no doubt watching inappropriate vine videos (based on her cackles of laughter) and my not so secretly wishing she might go to bed early tonight, you know like at 4pm 9pm, I am so enormously thankful to be given the chance to raise her and to be a mom. I am just ok enough with my selfishness to celebrate while still feeling all the burden of the other emotions.

This isn’t at all a swipe at what my fellow blogger was saying; not at all.  I don’t expect Tao, or Hope to feel the way I do.  I also acknowledge the privilege always afforded the adoptive parents’ voice in constructing the adoption narrative.  I get that too.

This triad and its attendant emotions is hard.  There isn’t really a clean reconciliation of all of the feelings. We all just muddle through, sifting through lots of emotions and lots of truth.

So, I totally get where Tao is coming from, and I feel that too.  But I can still warmly celebrate that something wonderful emerged from resounding losses. For me, that’s been a good, if not challenging, thing.

6 Comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in Adoption Advocacy, Hard Stuff, Lessons Learned, Post Placement

March 12, 2015

About That Church Thing

By AdoptiveBlackMom

So, the prayer about having an adoption blessing at my church is still unanswered.

Sigh.

Over the years I have had a lot of issues with churches.  I grew up in “the church.”  I went through periods of deep resentment about the expectations placed on me as the daughter of a church officer.  Then as a college student I got disillusioned when I felt the church I was attending was just wayyyyy too conservative for me.  Then there was a time when I just practiced via televangelist.  Then I was more spiritual than the religious foolishness (truthfully I’m still in that camp). Then there was the church that frowned on an event that a few of us 20/30-somethings hosted called Christian Afterparty, which was a clean movie night with young, Christian adults who wanted to just hang out.  I routinely had 30 folks in my living and dining rooms on the weekends just hanging, but the young adult pastor just got pissy so we stopped.  Then there was another period of disillusionment.

After the first semester of my doctoral studies I realized I needed to probably link up somewhere spiritually. So, here I am, back in fellowship, recognizing that “church” is never going to be perfect and that the Holy Homeboy has his own timeline. Yeah, I get all that, but I’m still feeling icky about how the request to bless my family has been handled.  Is it really that out of step from what other families get?  Is it really that I feel marginalized?  Is it that I know if I had adopted an infant a dedication would’ve happened by now?  Is it that I have an unwarranted sense of entitlement as a member to be recognized?

Yeah, maybe it’s all of that.

Recently, I sent off an email asking, “So, um, about that dedication thing…” I got an email right back, saying that I needed to reach out to someone else.  Oh, ok.  So, I get around to sending that person a long email recap with a side of angst.

I really wish I hadn’t asked.  I do.  I hate this.  It’s painful.  It makes me feel all un-Christian-y.  I don’t want to be a trailblazer anymore.  I also don’t want to be unhappy at my church. I want to enjoy being there.  I want to worship happily, without feeling like I’ve been rejected in some way.

This is a really layered issue for me from a diversity perspective and from a member perspective.  My dad, who is an officer/elder type in his church, and I were chatting recently about what membership means in a church; what does that entitle you to?  Does it entitle you to anything at all? We both like governance issues, so we concluded that if a church’s constitution is silent on denying privileges, those privileges convey to members.  So I see all kinds of different kinds of families in my house of worship; this whole dedication thing makes me wonder are we all equal under my church’s constitution?  I mean, I’ve seen single, unwed parents cast out of churches with big ole Hester Prynne-style scarlett letters, and don’t get me started on church and same sex marriage.

Oh I get it, folks want to put some boundaries around things, but I have long wondered, in my periods of disillusion, what do the application of boundaries mean for different and, apparently in my case new, kinds of folks/situations?  I’ve often wondered how many people like me, a believer just working her life walk with the Holy Homeboy on their terms, are turned off by the emotional, electric fencing around “churches” and “religion.”  I don’t know.  But it makes me wonder because I’m really struggling sitting up somewhere every week hearing about God’s love for everyone and feeling like I should probably just sit in my car in the parking lot, you know, where I can hear the Holy Homeboy without a side dish of alienation and lip service inclusion.

Yeah, I’m hurt…really, really hurt.

Boo Hiss.

The Background on The Church Thing

An Amazing Dedication

Being Gracious

An Adoption Blessing

Radio Silence

About Face

7 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , | posted in Finalization Life, Hard Stuff

February 21, 2015

Surfboards and Whatnot

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Lots of snow days and cold weather have lead to lots of reflection and lesson learning this week.  Oh and a ton of laughs.

Parents have lots of ‘splaining to do.  In the year that Hope has been here I’ve had to break down song lyrics for her because it was clear that my blissfully naive daughter had no clue what the devil she was saying, often in public, often at a fairly loud volume.  I made a strategic mistake last year not breaking down what a “surfboard” is in the context of Beyonce’s Drunk in Love song. Quiet as kept, it amused me.  Tonight she was on speaker phone with a friend and started singing “surfboard” and my fun was over.  I had to explain.  She was peeved that I didn’t say something before.  It was kinda hilarious. Um, it was really hilarious. #surfboard

I also had to explain what the Kama Sutra is this week thanks to some song lyrics.  It was hilarious.

Because I’m brutally honest, we can talk about errrthang.  I really am proud of the fact that Hope asks me all kinds of serious, important questions.  It’s true what they say about kids talking during car rides.  We have covered some serious ground in the car.  And honestly I wasn’t ready for 97% of the questions she has asked during the last year.  We’ve talked sex (in such detail that I took to my bed with a nerve pill in hand afterward), relationships, who we like, who we don’t, how we feel about social issues, religion, politics, race, sexuality and on and on.

I promised Hope when we met that I would always kick it to her straight, and I do.  I’m clear about word choice, concepts, metaphors, context, as much as I can make perfectly plain, I do. For opinionated conversations, I share mine but give her space to come to her own conclusions.  I try to bridge seriousness with humor, and despite not being blessed with any kind of poker face I try really, really hard to not show a lot of emotion other than, “Heeeeyyyyyyy now, I’m glad you asked that, so um…Yeah!  Let’s do this!”  Now on the inside I might have reactions ranging from “WTF, I ain’t ready” to “LOLOLOLOL” to “Well, now that’s a really pithy question, there.”

I know that’s when we bond the most.  That’s the ultimate reward.  The bonus?  She tells her pals I’m a cool mom because she can ask me anything and I won’t freak out and I will give her an answer even if I have to find one. #whosaboss #coolmom

Teenagers tell time differently than adults do. Seriously, it’s like a time warp that is utterly non-sensical to me.  Over the last few weeks Hope has been a party to all kinds of foolishness.  Consequently, I have gone on high monitoring alert.  NSA ain’t got nothing on me.  We had to have a conversation about privacy rights in Casa d’ABM last night.

In Hope’s mind, certain infactions occurring more than 72 hours ago, or there about, are indeed prehistoric. They happened in a completely different era. Consequently she is regularly perplexed as to why I conclude that she has not addressed and/or repaired any trust concerns in that time frame–the same time frame in which she was asleep for approximately 30 hours of the 72.

We’ve discussed it with our therapist. We look at each other with furrowed brows like we not only don’t use same clock, but also speak different languages.

Apparently we do use different clocks and speak different languages.

It’s gotten so crazy that I’ve told her that if she could just go one week without some crazy, then we could talk about my NSA-like behavior.

Her response?

So is that a week without weekends?  A week with weekends?  Does that includes snow days? If school starts late how does that work in the week count? Are you counting the hours I sleep? What about if I have an all day program on the weekends, where you know I won’t cut up?  Do those hours count or do I have to keep it together other hours too?

#WTEntireH #whatkindaclockisthat

Body issues are the devil. I’ve struggled with body issues and self acceptance for most of my life.  I have never been skinny; heck I’ve never been slim. At best I’ve been fit because of decent eating and exercise.  Years ago I fell into eating disorders trying to deal with my poor vision of self.  I can reflect and say now, that the beauty of the last few years just preceding motherhood and settling into it and being over 40 have freed me from that burden.

I try to eat well and I exercise regularly, but listen: I am not about that self-denial life. If I want it, I eat it and I enjoy it.  I might need to hit the gym at 8pm to mitigate the splurge but dammit I’m splurging.

And I’m enjoying everything. I recently declared to my doctor that I will NOT diet; I will not self-restrict to excess.  I will up exercise in terms of time and intensity, but dammit I now know what this body is capable of and I have a better understanding of the psyche and soul that it houses.  I respect that package.

I’m blessed to have arrived here as I begin to raise a teenage girl into a self-loving/self-assured woman. She has so many self-love issues to work through.

I want to model healthy habits for her.  I also want her to enjoy dining, to enjoy trying different things.  I would love for her to become more active. But most of all I want her to love herself and to appreciate how amazing she is and that the invisible “chubby belly” that she complains about is a figment of her imagination.

I have a chubby belly that I love, so I know what I’m talking about.

Perfection is the enemy of the good.  So sayeth Voltaire and cosigned by numerous other philosophers.

Hope and I struggle mightily with the need to be perfect.  We both have exacting standards about things we do, things we like, things we wear.  We’re quite well suited in that respect. Or not, I guess.

I’m over 40, and I’ve learned to manage this personal flaw a bit over the years.  I’ve experienced so many disappointments that I’ve been conditioned to know that perfection is elusive and that expectations should be realistic. I remember when I started my dissertation, someone told me that 1) the dissertation was just a project, 2) it didn’t have to be my life’s work, 3) it didn’t need to be a bigger BHAG–Big Hairy Audacious Goal–than it already was, 4) the project needed to be manageable and finally 5) it did not need to be perfect–it just needed to be approved as solid work by my committee.

It did not need to be perfect.  So, then I became a member of #TeamGet’erDone.

Our latest perfection drama has been getting Hope to take care of her own night-time hair care rituals.  For the last three weeks I have painstakingly (I’m not joking or exaggerating–my arthritis is killing me) blown out Hope’s hair and flat ironed it.  She has been rocking that old school mushroom like the good Deaconess/First Lady, holy and sanctified from that church over in yonder township.

For the first week I put the rollers in at night and I took the rollers out in the morning. Last week I put the rollers in; Hope took them out in the mornings after I convinced her that removing rollers would not result in failure.  That took several days of coaxing, but we mastered it by the weekend.  This week I was hellbent on getting her to learn to put the rollers in at night herself. Yeah, yeah, those moments could be bonding time, but it really is something at nearly 14 that I need her to add to her skill set tool box.

There were tantrums.  Ugh.  There was door slamming, audible moaning, throwing of rollers.  It was bad.  These tantrums served their true purpose–to get me to put the rollers in instead.  The first night, I asked her to do one roller, then two, then ultimately three.  She fought and threw hissies all dang night and you know how many rollers were set?

Just one.

Before the start of this week’s Add Water and Stir Podcast, I announced that she would be responsible for rolling her hair while Mimi and I were broadcasting. So, during the podcast I hear rollers snapping, grunting, heavy sighs and just random noises related to  the roller struggle. #thestrugglewasreal At one point a picture crashed onto the bathroom floor.

After we wrapped the show, I tentatively opened my door.  She almost knocked me down with excitement!

“I did it! I did it” #thatswhatsup

She explained that it wasn’t perfect; she told me about her technique and modifications. She was so excited and so proud of herself.

Yes! And frankly, her hair looked fabulous the next day. #flawless

I might have to lock her in the bathroom more often to get some stuff done!

So, that’s what we’re rocking this week.  I haven’t been writing about these lessons as much lately, but I’m still learning and loving around these parts. We’re in for more snow today, so I’m planning a Black History Edutainment movie marathon.  We’re beginning with Spike Lee’s Malcolm X, in honor of Brother Malcolm’s assassination 50 years ago today.

Peace be upon you.

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

December 31, 2014

A Year Gone By

By AdoptiveBlackMom

As I close out the year, it’s hard not to do a lot of reflecting on the massive changes in my life in 2014.  I know that this is a critical year in my life, one that I will look back on and think about how my life trajectory shifted.

Hope was placed with me in January.

I started seeing Elihu in early February.

By mid-February I thought everything would collapse into total disaster.

I finished writing my dissertation in the midst of the chaos.

I defended it in late March.

Hope and I seemed to really, really start settling in around April.

I graduated in May.

We finalized in June.

Mimi and I launched Add Water and Stir.

We celebrated at Disney in June/July.

Hope’s extended first family found us.

Hope and I fumbled through the summer with increasingly normal teen/mom stuff.

I lost the Furry One.

School started in September, and I started traveling.

We struggled with all kinds of things.

We excelled at all kinds of things.

Hope became less recalcitrant about new things.

I wondered that the devil I was doing with this mothering thing.

We welcomed The Yappy One.

We survived the holidays.

And now we look at our first anniversary of placement.

It’s been an exhausting and exhilarating year.

Looking forward I’m hopeful.  I’m hopeful that Hope will continue to grow, to feel safe, to thrive here.  I hope that I will gain a bit more confidence in this parenting game. I hope that things will continue to be good for me and E.  I hope I can hang onto myself, stay healthy emotionally and physically. I hope that Hope will continue to blossom, that she will hit some of the developmental markers that still wait for her.  I hope our relationship continues to grow.

I could make all kinds of predictions about 2015.  Somethings I just know will happen, others are just guesses in the dark.  It will be fun to see how it all comes together.  There’s a lot going on and a lot to be done.

Happy New Year everyone.  May 2015 bring you much peace and happiness!

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

November 10, 2014

Thoughts on Being an Ally to Adoptees

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Occasionally I write about my work in diversity; it certainly informs some of the writing I do here about the cross points of diversity, race most specifically, and adoption. For the last few days I’ve been pondering the #flipthescript hashtag on Twitter and why it hasn’t shown up on my “tailored” trend feed as a “trending” hashtag. Certainly the content is there; the tweets from adoptees are deeply meaningful, sometimes provocative, and shouting the desire to be heard as loudly as the voices of adoptive parents.

And yet, it’s almost as though there is a dull pinging in the Twitterverse.

Now, I’m not really into tweeting. I’ve been working on getting into it; it just moves too fast for me, frankly. Gosh, Twitter makes me feel old.

There I said it.

shamehead

Anyhoo, maybe I’m missing the big trend? I’m just not seeing it; though I do still see folks tweeting about Apollo Nida and Phaedra Parks from the Real Housewives of Atlanta. (Disclosure: I tweeted about them last night too.)  There have been some great blog posts about the sensitivities around NAAM, so I don’t want to downplay those, but even those–like this post–have been largely written by adoptive parents.

So, in the midst of sifting through Twitter this afternoon I came across one of Angela Tucker’s tweets that made me really ponder.

https://twitter.com/angieadoptee/status/531849931934269440

Something about Angela’s tweet drew me back into my day job in diversity and who creates the narrative, keeps it going and has the power to change it.

National Adoption Awareness Month is really about adoptive parents, not adoptees.

Ouch right? No, really it’s true. And before you hit the x-box in the corner of your browser, stay with me for a minute.

In any social moment, there is a dominant group who gets to create the event, set the tone, invite attendees, host the party and send everyone home with the parting gifts of their—the hosts–liking. The assumption is that these folks care more than anyone else, and that they know best how to throw this party and what it should be about. They just know more.

This isn’t true of course, but when you are the dominant social group, the group with the power, it’s true because you say it’s true and because you act like it’s true. And as long as other voices are mute or silent or muted and silenced then who’s gonna check you boo?

rhoacheckmeboogif

This is what the use of power and privilege looks like.

Ugh, yeah, yeah it does. I know we adoptive parents probably don’t want to hear that, and it’s hard to write it, but it is what it is. I recognize that my fellow adoptive parents want and strive to be good people and good parents. We love our kids and our grown kids so very much. But the nature of the relationship—parent/child—creates a power dynamic that is hard to shake even when the adoptee is waaaaay grown. The use of power and privilege, even blindly and unintentionally, can be and often is oppressive.

Oppression has many antidotes, but its healing treatment is most effective when dominant group allies pick up the issue and carry it alongside (don’t take over!) those who have been oppressed. Oh, the irony that the marginalized group must, in part, rely on the dominant group to carry the weight should not be lost on any of us; it’s aggravatingly pissy.

But let’s not kid ourselves, I’d still be drinking at the colored water fountain in my segregated school but for some White folks who stepped up and joined ranks in saying, NO, Jim Crow is not any kind of right. My LGBT friends and colleagues would continue to live in environments that crush their spirit back into a closet but for straight allies also saying NO, this mess ain’t right. As the narrative dominant group, we have got to use our power and voice to promote inclusion.  Giving voice to adoptees shouldn’t be threatening to feeling happy about having the families that have been created through this process. Inclusion of their voice sensitizes us and everyone not on this journey that it’s not a walk in the park for any of us.

Adoption is complicated. I still celebrate my kid this month, probably almost invisibly in my “real” life. I am delighted that I am a mom and that our adoption has afforded me the opportunity to step into this role. But I recognize that this path is different, that my Hope’s needs are at times very different, that her voice in this journey is different, that she has emotions and feelings about being my daughter that I will never quite understand, that some of these emotions—even though they have little to do with me—will hurt both of us on various levels, and that advocating for her means listening to her voice, even and especially when she is saying something I’m not sure I want to hear.

As her mom and her biggest ally, it isn’t enough that I go through this with her, that I have my own story and write about in this space, that I bear witness to her as she navigates and creates her story or that I honor her story alone. I have a responsibility in this thing to amplify her voice and the voice of adoptees like her. It’s sad that many of the stories I see crossing social media don’t really mention the world view of the adoptee because adoptive parents are throwing the Adoption Awareness party.  I don’t think it’s malicious, but I think it speaks to the blind pervasiveness of power and privilege in our culture.

So, my fellow adoptive parents, take a moment out to amplify the voices of the adoptee. Make sure they are heard in your circles. They have a voice, just it and turn it up. As the dominant voice in adoption (all the time, not just during NAAM), we should be active and activist allies for adoptees and ensure that they are as visible as they choose to be, as loud as they want to be, and always, always heard. That is our challenge as the folks with the power and the privilege positions in adoption.

Being a good ally doesn’t mean that you can’t still celebrate the creation or expansion of our families this month, but be sensitive that it isn’t a celebration for everyone. Look, listen and retweet their voices. #turndownforwhat #flipthescript

2 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , | posted in Adoption Advocacy, Hard Stuff

November 5, 2014

Adoption Awareness Month Musings

By AdoptiveBlackMom

About a year ago, during National Adoption Awareness Month 2013, I announced to the world that I was adopting Hope. We were already matched. I had been out to visit her, and I was anticipating her nearly two week visit later in the month. All things pointed to an imminent placement with the goal of eventually finalizing.

I was excited, elated, high off of joy. I was going to be a mom! I knew it would be challenging, but I thought hey, I can do this and I want the world to know.

To quote Lauryn Hill, “It was all so simple then…”

A year later, my daughter Hope has now been with me for 10 months, and we finalized our adoption 6 months ago.

And we have been through some ish.

A lot of I’ve written about or rather through, and a lot I haven’t written about at all. Some of it seems…unspeakable, and in those moments I felt as broken and as alone as I ever have and probably as much as Hope felt at the time.

Along the way, I’ve found a cool community of fellow adopters. Day to day support has been…tricky at times, but truthfully, even if I didn’t feel like it, someone was there. It wasn’t always the person I wanted, but someone was there.

I got some things right, but I’ve made colossal mistakes. I’ve triumphed. I’ve failed. I’ve cared, been accused of caring too much and have not cared so much as to give one more damn at times over the last year.
I’ve experienced so many emotions that I’m convinced I created some new ones along the way. I’ve experienced sadness and anger the most, to be honest. Happiness is something I often have to deliberately pursue because that emotion hasn’t taken up permanent residence here yet.

In all, it’s been some radical highs and some spirit crushing lows.

And if I’m really, really honest, I am not sure I would do it again. Oh, gosh I love my daughter fiercely—and she is MY daughter– but I would be lying if I didn’t admit I was still mourning the life I had or that the challenges of the year haven’t worn me down in multiple ways that give me pause about everything.

No regrets, just curious about what my alternative life would be like now (it’s nice to fantasize) and wondering what could I have possibly done to have been better prepared or to have done a better job along the way.

So there’s my broad stroke recap of the last year as I reflect on “adoption awareness.”

These awareness months can be odd things, you know? We celebrate different peoples, histories and cultures; we commemorate things, pledge to fight diseases by raising research money and walking and running various distances. We raise awareness about all sorts of stuff, including adoption.

Ok, so be “aware” of adoption this month. #yepstillasmartypants

I’ve been reading a lot of adoptee blogs lately.

Sometimes they make me feel absurdly self-absorbed in my thinking and writing about my trials on this journey. But then I remember this is a blog about my journey in my own voice, so there’s that.

That said, I’m learning from the blogs of adoptees that there is this clear call for voice, for agency over self, over their adoption narrative and about all the bits and pieces that make for unique experiences with uniquely framed challenges. And as I read these blogs, I wonder about Hope’s experiences—not just from the last year—but from her life. Naturally I think about these things a lot, but as I learn more I maybe see this journey much differently than I did before.

In the midst of my own joy in coming to motherhood, there sits such huge amounts of loss that at times it can be breathtaking.

I can’t enumerate all that Hope has lost, but in my nearly 42 years, I haven’t experienced a fraction of that kind of loss. And despite all this “adoption awareness” I must remind myself of that nearly hourly. When she is acting like a real pill, and it is a mixture of being 13 (plainly hell on earth) and having experienced so much in her few years, I have got to remember the role the latter really plays in the behaviors that push me to the brink. I don’t all ways do a good job of this; to be honest, I feel like I largely suck at it. This home probably isn’t as healing as it should be at times. And I imagine that it’s because I fail to be “adoption aware” in the moment.

”Adoption awareness” is largely narrated by adoptive parents. I didn’t appreciate that a year ago. But now, as I see new adoptive parents praying that God gets the birth mother to stop considering to parent her child so that they, the adoptive parents, get to keep their child, I get the pervasiveness of that framework. I see both sides of the story now, thanks to the voices of adoptees.

I hear it now as I went to the altar this weekend for prayer for me and Hope as the person praying to me said that my little family was predestined by God and isn’t it wonderful how things worked out. Well, yeah, it is, but really did Hope have to suffer for me to parent her? So, her loss was predestined. I struggle with that, even as I know how many times the Holy Homeboy has demonstrated his power in the midst of tragedy; I radically question the why must Hope suffer, even today as irritating middle schoolers tease her about even needing to be adopted and as we navigate integrating our lives together.

Adoption is rarely neat and tidy. Gosh we need more complicated people to jump into these complicated situations. But we also need to keep an ear to the ground and be ever mindful about how our children see themselves in the journey, how they reflect on the journey and how they narrate their own journey.

My journey is forever linked to Hope’s and this blog is about my story, not hers. It is just one side of the adoption story. I look forward to years from now, having tea (or something stronger) on a wraparound porch (my architectural fantasy) hearing her talk about her journey. If I really try hard to pay attention now, I won’t be as shocked by the emotions that come tumbling out then as I seem to be now.

So that’s my early month two cents, musings on National Adoption Awareness Month.

1 Comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , , | posted in Finalization Life, Hard Stuff, Lessons Learned

October 26, 2014

Growth Spurts

By AdoptiveBlackMom

This has been a challenging month for me and Hope; as the month comes to a close I realize that it’s been growing pains. The joints that hold us together have undergone a really rapid period of growth that has stressed us and made us both step up in areas and let go in others. So time for the new lessons.

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Hope is not the kid she was a month ago, and that’s kinda cool. My going away on business travel was tough on us this month, but Hope seems to have dealt with it well. She’s more self-assured and modestly ( and I mean a smidge!) more responsible than a month ago. In a pinch she can really step up. I’m proud that we discovered this, even if she still wants me to baby her quite a bit when we get home.

Grief continues to cloak our home. It’s tough sometimes, but we’re making progress. Having some meaningful items from her family has made her ability to just openly grieve easier. The loss of the Furry One has affected both of us deeply, but she’s now in an environment where it’s ok to show emotion and it’s ok to just work through the grief. Even though there is a sadness here, it’s healthy. We sit with it as we work through it. I miss my dog. She misses her dad. We miss them every single day and missing hasn’t necessarily gotten easier, but our ability to cope has. I would never admit it to her, but I’m about thisclose to running to the shelter and getting us another dog. I miss the nails clicking on the hardwood floors.

This church thing cuts deep. There have been times when I really rejected going to church. Just all out rejected it. I was raised in church, come from a long line of religious leaders. But organized religion drives me up the dang wall. I hate the preening and posturing. I did and do get down with some liberation theology. I reject the prosperity stuff. I just want to do good, be good and show up at the gates and be proud of the life I’ve lived. We can believe in lots of things, and I do. Christianity isn’t an exclusive path for me; it is what I identify as, but I would say my theology is more complex. My current church has been fertile ground for me, though. It’s been a good fit and Hope has taken to it better than I could’ve dreamed. I love that she loves going, that if we miss a couple of weeks she’s asking to go. I love that she wanted to go to the women’s only service that we have once a month. I love that we talk about faith and that I can see the wheels in her head turning about faith and salvation. It’s good stuff.

What’s not good stuff? Listening to the announcements about baby dedication next week this morning (and jokes about whether dinosaurs dedicated their babies—I wanted to scream “or adoptive parents of older kids?” In fact it made me cry, right there, in the middle of service. I couldn’t go to altar call today; I normally go to pray for me and Hope, but after nearly a year of going faithfully nearly every service since I started this process, I couldn’t make myself go up to pray for us. I felt so invisible, so unwelcome to do it publicly.

I am convinced that there is still a greater message in this for me. I’m wrestling with trying to learn it. There is a divine reason for enduring the rejection in a space that my kid is thriving and where I am now miserable. I have no idea what that reason is or how long it will take me to uncover it, but I believe there is a reason.

Hope’s faith gives me hope. So we met friends for lunch after church today and when we get in the car we channel surfed to find some appropriate post-church music. Well after a few rumpshaker channels, I ended up plugging in my phone and bumping my favorite mix of gospel. Hope loves this mix and she sings along. Today she mentioned that when she changed foster homes the last couple of years she sang one song in particular: Fred Hammond’s We’re Blessed. Oh, getchu some here!

Yesssss! #ilive

For reals, how can you NOT have some hope after that? #anointed

Now I have to admit that this is one of my favorite faith hype songs. But really, how profound is it for a foster kid to sing this when whenever she moves to a new home? Even if she wasn’t really sure why she was singing what she was singing…wow, what a testimony about how the Holy Homeboy steps in? She continues to stun me with depth.

Of course some of the depth is countered by the swirly teendom, but still.

I love my little conundrum of a kid.

We are blessed indeed.  At the end of the day, the church thing doesn’t matter.

Late in the midnight hour, the Holy Homeboy is going to turn it around.

Maybe I’m doing ok in this parenting thing. I posted an article on my ABM FB page today (have you liked it?) about regrets parents have. Oh gosh, I have so many regrets over stupid things I do on the daily. But I think I might be doing ok. I was listening to Hope describe me and some of my behaviors to a friend today. I cracked up because she has me so pegged. Now sometimes it might seem like I’m riding a broom around this house, but I love my kid with a fierceness I didn’t know was possible. I try to make her happy and safe. I give her lots of structure and she’s thriving. Whatever dumb ish she does, she does because she’s 13 and 13 year olds do incredibly dumb ish.

I think I might survive this, and I think she might too.

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Keeping track of this stuff helps me to just not get so bogged down all the time. The reflection is helpful; there’s so much I want for us and for Hope, specifically. I’m sure I could be doing better, but I think we’re going to be ok.

We’re blessed.

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

October 16, 2014

The Package

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Since June, I’ve been wrestling with the emergence of Hope’s biological extended family finding us. The irony of their emergence is that I had initiated my own search of them a mere six weeks before. I was curious about them. Hope had memories, both good and bad about some of the folks in her family. I wanted to know about them; I wanted to know where to find them if Hope wanted to reach out to them. I wanted to have some control over when and how the connection was made. And then the first day of our celebratory vacation, I got the Facebook inbox message.

I remember immediately feeling threatened—What did they want? Even though we were “legal” would they try to take her from me? Would Hope choose them over me?  Would she run to them if she got pissed off at me? Was blood going to trump me? How did they find us? I had given Hope a pseudonym on social media and our privacy settings were pretty high.   I remember feeling so panicked and so very threatened. I didn’t want to lose the kid that I had just put on lock, so to speak.

It has taken some time to navigate advancements in this relationship. I insisted that they go through me for contact. I asked questions on her behalf. I sent pictures and very modest updates. I got royally frustrated, no pissed really, when it was clear that some family members had higher expectations about my engagement with them.  It has also been rough because people who have hurt her seem to have selective memory about their relationship with Hope.

Of course this has been emotional for my sweet girl too. The first few mementos they sent triggered anger, sorrow and so, so much grief. But this time has also represented so many breakthroughs. Hope is busy constructing an identity that includes two last names (She kept her birth surname and just added mine—it’s long, but it works!); she now has some items that are priceless to her; she has begun to make peace with a lot of her grief. We’ve developed a few new rituals to commemorate key dates in her life before me, thanks to the emergence of her family. It hasn’t been easy and Lord knows I’ve griped, but being found has not been a bad thing.  It’s been a hell of a challenge, but it is not a bad thing.

Recently, Hope’s paternal grandmother sent her a package. I’ve been on the road so much recently that I just picked it up this week. The package included some cards, poems, some of her granny’s arts and crafts (there’s an apron for the liquid dish detergent bottle <quizzical grin>), and most importantly, Hope’s father’s American flag.

I pre-open things, and even though I knew it was in the box it was a shock to see it, lovingly wrapped in plastic, preserved for when they found Hope. The cards were addressed to my daughter using her full name, her new name, my surname.

Seeing her name and the small simple thank you card they included for me changed everything.

They acknowledged that I was her mother. There is no threat; Hope just has a really big family. I cried more than Hope did.

Hope went through everything in the box; I continue to see her grow and thrive. I’m so proud of her. These developments are so important to her.

We’ll be integrating these arts and crafts into our home; they are special to both of us. (There are bar soap cozies too. I imagine that there’s a plastic slipcover somewhere to be seen in my future; my spidey sense tells me so.)

We will be moving to phone calls soon and a visit eventually; Hope’s family is a reasonable drive away. All in good time.

This journey continues to teach me so much.

1 Comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , | posted in An Expanded Family, Dealing with the Past, Finalization Life, Hard Stuff, Lessons Learned

October 11, 2014

Adopting While Black

By AdoptiveBlackMom

“Black folks – Is it insulting to think about raising a white child?”

Great question posed by Angela Tucker in a recent blogpost entitled, “Why didn’t any Black parents want to adopt me.”

So, hmmm, what’s the answer? Well, I, at times, hate to speak on behalf of Black folks, so my responses are my own.

Nope, it’s not insulting to think about raising a White child. I just chose not to. I’ll admit that when I filled out my matching tool, I grappled with the decision to limit my match to children of color. I wondered what that said about me, not wanting to parent a White child.

Did it say I was bigoted? Did I think I could do it? Did I wonder what my friends and family would think if I was matched with and eventually adopted a White child? How did I really feel about it? On the edges, it was a messy thought process, to be honest. Especially since I am diversity professional and prattle on about inclusiveness day in and day out.

Honestly though, the emphasis of my thought process rested in the fact that I really wanted to parent a Black child. I wanted to enjoy the inherent privilege associated with same race adoption. I wanted to enjoy my daughter and not having prying eyes wonder what was up with our family construction. In short, I didn’t want to deal. I wanted my family to pass. If there’s an easy adoption path, I thought same race adoption would at least be on that path. Some days, I’m not sure if it is easier.

So, in answer to the main title question, I did want to adopt a child like Angela, and my beautiful daughter Hope was a perfect match. I’m not sure how many of us, parents of color, are in the hopper to formally adopt, though.  Sure there’s a high percentage of kinship adoption. For those of us who adopt through other channels, I would imagine that more of us are probably like me and just want to enjoy racial privilege in this area. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like there are lots of opportunities to enjoy racial privilege around these parts, goals of a post-racial society notwithstanding.

The numbers of kids also seems to work in our favor as well, as another blogger I recently engaged wrote—kids of color are available. White, non-Hispanic children make up 49% of adopted children in the US, according to the Census Bureau, and White households make up 78% of adoptive families. Transracial adoptions make up 40% of adoptions, and international adoptions make up 37% of transracial adoptions.

And still, Black children remain overrepresented in the foster care system.

So we see families of color adopting at a rate of just over 20%, and the availability and opportunity to adopt same race children is likely occurring at an even greater percentage than that of their White parental counterparts.

The math suggests that unless there is a deliberate desire to parent across race by people of color, it’s probably unlikely to happen in large numbers. I’m not sure what it will take for that deliberate desire to develop.

And we can all feel some kind of way about that…or not. I guess. I wasn’t willing to help out on getting past our racial issues in my own choice to parent. I am ok with that choice; building my family wasn’t about social commentary or saving the world, it was about me wanting to be a mom. It was kind of selfish to be honest.

I respect those who embrace transracial adoption because they too, just want to be moms and dads; like me, they simply wanted to be parents. The decision making process around being a parent, how to become a parent and how to then parent is so personalized. As I often say, it’s messy.

I’ve never thought that the concept of ‘transracial adoption’ was limited to White parents with children of color; I didn’t think that it excluded Black parents with White children. I disagree with the Black Social Workers Association’s language about genocide and transracial adoption, but I do agree with the group in that it feels like the system is quick to remove brown and black children from their homes permanently, thus contributing to their overrepresentation in the foster care system and setting up the numbers game that exists.

Sadly, in addition to the math, I do think that there remains a certain taboo of sorts around adoption in the Black community; it’s unfortunate. I think that the taboos are tied up in lots of things like, “don’t get in my business” (there’s a LOT of that in adoption process), “don’t judge me” (in a community that often feels judged), “it’s God’s will that I not be a parent” (religion can be spun so discouragingly sometimes).

I believe that Black parents can raise White children, and they may even be willing to do so at the same percentage rate as their White counterparts. I don’t know. But I think there are bridges to cross, and I think that the “step up” that Angela refers to in her essay is often seen through the lens of “stepping up” within group rather than across groups.

I strive to teach Hope about inclusivity. At her age, she dreams of having biological children with a husband; she eschews the idea of adopting herself one day. Who knows what will happen in her future with respect to parenting. Hope struggles with lots of racial identity issues, more along the lines of a concept that the world is a narrow one for Black folks—we don’t do this, we aren’t allowed to do that. They are probably similar to and different from struggles experienced in transracial adoptive families. It’s all hard sometimes whether you’re same race or transracial, I’m guessing.

If I choose to add to my family, I admit I probably would make the same decision again. I just would. I certainly could choose to expand my matching search but I don’t think I want to. I’m not trying to make a statement about anything. I just want to be a mom. I admit that the pull of color is a strong one. There’s also the pull of the numbers and availability. None of these choice limiting influences makes me a bad person, and I certainly am not suggesting that Angela’s essay claims that. But I do believe that I’m not an outlier, Black, wanting to parent and choosing to parent a Black child.

So, I would’ve wanted to adopt you, Angela.  I think you’re pretty darn awesome and that your family did an amazing job raising you.  Love your blog, by the way.

 

24 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Hard Stuff, Other Stuff

October 6, 2014

Lessons from the Road

By AdoptiveBlackMom

It seems we’ve turned a corner in Casa d’ABM. I am on my second business trip and a third is right around the corner. I’m tired and probably a bit irritable. My forced absence from my home for work has resulted in Hope really stepping up. She’s doing laundry and really hanging in there. I expect that she might go off the rails before it’s all over, but so far so good. I’m proud of her; I know that it’s all a challenge. It’s a challenge for both of us. We’ve got great help and we’ll make it through. This change in routine has resulted in some new lessons for me. Yeah, always learning; always reflecting.

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This teenage girl thing is a hot, flakey, buttered mess.  I’m so glad that Hope talks to me, and I’m trying to keep my mouth shut at key moments so that she will keep talking. I wish that I could make things easier for her, but what with hormones, talk of anorexic lunch mates, school fundraisers and bullies… it’s all a bit much. Some people have said I jumped into the deep end of the pool; some days I feel like I jumped off a cruise ship into the ocean.   But for now, she tells me things. I watch her watch me for even the most subtle facial expression as she decides what and how much to tell me. I watch her retreat into her room when things just get too much. Hours go by. She’s ok, but she just needs time. I watch her start to fret about her outfits; she’s evolving from a jeans and tee girl. The rough edges are smoothing ever so slightly. Hope is growing.

All this growth has resurfaced some old behaviors. Old habits die hard. Early on, Hope and I struggled with the lingering impact of her being put in caretaker roles. There were days when this kid thought she was all the way grown. #nomaam #haveseveralseats It was challenging to get her to trust that I was the sole adult in this relationship and that I took care of everything. At some point the pendulum swung all the way to the other end of the continuum with me engaging her with very childlike things. She was very much baby-like for some weeks there.

And now we’re back to trying to be grown. Lawd, this child. There are moments when I really just feel like saying, “Sit your $5 behind down before I make change!” Right now we are really struggling with some of her assessments about the adults in her life, particularly teachers. She fancies herself an educational expert and is quick to conclude that a teacher is not appropriately deploying the curriculum. #eyeroll It is a tedious process of Q&A to help her question her conclusions, focus on the learning, and considering what she might do differently to elicit a different, more positive response from folks. In the end, it’s always about whether she feels like she can trust the adult to take care of whatever it is that needs to be taken care of. We seem to be in a season when she isn’t as trustful. A lot has happened already this school year, and I know it’s resulted in some of this setback. It’s tough.

Adoption conversations occur all the dang time, and they require so much energy. Yesterday it was a question about why we call animal mutts and what that says about their parentage and hers (is she a mutt?). A few days before it was a chat about how to see her biological grandmother and an aunt without the rest of the family knowing she doesn’t want to see them. Days before that it was a desire to see her original birth certificate, then a conversation about her thoughts on ever seeing/talking to her biological mother. Then there was the confab last week about the upcoming holiday season and establishing traditions that are mindful of broken traditions before, of pleasant and horrible holiday memories, of how completely overwhelming it is to start over again.

Then there’s the movies (last week The Amazing Spiderman), the TV show (Grey’s Anatomy) and on and on. Sometimes I feel like I’m just always waiting for a shoe to drop on an adoption topic. Some days they spark lots of conversation; other days there is no noticeable impact, but I know it’s lurking.

I’m not afraid of these conversations. She is committed to establishing herself in this family, but she’s also trying to figure out who she is and how to reconcile it all. It’s a lot for 13, especially when 13 is already so messy.

And speaking of messy, we are going to work to expand the family connections. Hope has concluded that she wants to try to broker a relationship with two family members. Of course, it’s the ones who seem to respect boundaries. This is cool, though it’s all so very emotional. It means I have to work hard to manage my own assessments and learned experiences of the last few months in relating to members of the family. I am struggling to figure out how to protect her from the other family members who don’t respect established boundaries and who she is very adamant about not seeing, hearing from or having any contact with at all.   I’m learning a lot more from fellow blogger, Mimi (www.ComplicatedMelodi.com), on how to be empathetic towards Hope’s biological family. It’s tough though when my experiences haven’t been great and when her experiences haven’t been great and her expectations have been dashed before. Oy.

High expectations hurt people over and over and over. This journey changes you. It changes the people around you. It brings out the best in people. It brings out the worst in people.

There are always so many expectations, and they are so very high. Your own expectations are the worse. You are your own worst critic; especially when you are wrestling with some rough stuff going on at home. The expectations just never seem to let up whether they are internal or external. And there’s no way to meet all those expectations.

I find myself sometimes feeling furious and exasperated by all the expectations and my subsequent failure when I don’t live up to them. I don’t have too many confidants who aren’t other adoptive parents; sometimes other people just don’t understand. I found myself confronted by outrageous expectations this week. I was furious; I was hurt and I just wanted to lash out. And I did to some degree. I know I can’t do it all or the way other people want me to. I can’t live up to it all. I don’t even want to. But it hurts like hell when all you want to do is what’s best for your kid and folks muddy the waters with unreasonable expectations about ish they know little about.

Hell, it’s bad enough when I muddy my own waters. Everyone, including me, just needs to take a chill pill.

Technology is providing a great assist in this parenting thing. Hope is shady. Of course she’s shady, she’s developed extraordinary survival skills during her 13 years, and well, she’s 13, she is wired to be somewhat shady at this stage. I try to stay at least one step ahead of her and technology helps me do it. I use various apps to manage her online experience. I block pages, I monitor how much time she’s allowed to have online. Some of my faves are Screen Time (only $2.99 a month) and Blocksi (free), which is a browser add on that blocks certain content, including specific pages you enter. Hope whines a lot that I don’t trust her, and occasionally I’ll loosen the reigns to give her some space to show that she can handle some freedom. That usually lasts a week or two, and well, we find that some of the blocks come back online.

Since I’m traveling a bit at the moment, I needed to be able to continue sending her personalized notes first thing in the morning. Usually I hang these in the bathroom for her. Google Cloud Print has changed the game! I now just create my notes in Google Drive and print to the house so that the nanny picks it up and hangs it in the bathroom. Tonight I printed an updated chore list—Hope acted both amazed at my ability to print remotely AND blow up her chore duty spot at the same time. Ha! ABM’s tech game is strong!

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So, anyhoo, we’re doing. The travel separation is tough; I know I will have a different kid at the end of the month. It’s scary and exciting, though. She’s doing some real growth right now. I can’t wait to see what the next blossom entails!

 

1 Comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , , | posted in Finalization Life, Hard Stuff, Lessons Learned

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