Tag Archives: Adoptive Single Parents

December 14, 2014

Parenting Trials

By AdoptiveBlackMom

I haven’t been in much of a writing mood lately, which is admittedly odd for me.  I’ve had a lot on my mind and heart but really, no desire to try to put words around it.  As the year draws to a close I find myself in my usual reflective cocoon, trying to make sense of the last year and creating a vision for the next.  I looked up today and realized that December is nearly half over and wondered if I could muster the umph to initiate my annual yoga challenge.  I usually challenge myself to 30 days of yoga, even if it’s just one piss-anne posture.  It stretches me out, usually makes my body more comfortable and at times more shapely, but finally and most importantly the challenge gives me dedicated time to just sit with memories and emotions, hopes and dreams, the messy and unmessy.

Last weekend, ComplicatedMelodi’s Mimi and I hosted our Add Water and Stir podcast and discussed parenting foibles: the good, the challenging and the ugly. Parenting taboos and challenges have been floating around in my mind ever since. I’m coming to grips with a couple of the reasons why there are so many parenting taboos.

Parent shaming is so dang real.

So a funny thing happened while I was out before dawn this week getting a script filled for Hope.  The pharmacist judged me for having my kid on a certain medication.

“You clearly haven’t done your research or you wouldn’t have your daughter on this medication.”

My foggy brain tried to pull it together. “Huh?”

“You could and should be controlling things with diet and exercise.”

“Um, not at 6:15am.  I’mma need you to back up on over to that counter and count out those pills and put them in that orange container, m’kay?”

Gosh, I felt like I’d gotten judged all over the waiting area of my local CVS. My ability to make decisions about my daughter’s medical care and well being  was openly questioned at the drop off counter, and I felt pretty put off by the whole exchange. The pharmacist didn’t try to educate me, she tried to shame me for making what she believed was a poor parenting decision.  Nice.

No wonder we are limited in how we talk about how we parent and the tough decisions we make for our kids.  If the pharmacist will judge my decisions, so will Jane Doe.

Everything my kid does reflects on me and my parenting skills.

While reading a great blog (My Perfect Breakdown) this week; MPB was discussing her struggle in deciding whether to be open to transracial matches.  It was a great post, check it out. As with many things the dirt is in the details, or rather the comment section; one commenter noted that as long as your child doesn’t grow up to be a criminal then you really needn’t worry about racial profiling or excessive force, especially if you’re in the “midwest.”

Girl bye. #bloop

That comment lit me up, because the subtext is so heavy–”Those parents raised a criminal and he got what he deserved.  His parents should have done better.” And let’s not forget “those crazy liberal, east and west coasters!”

Awesome.  And folks wonder why I worry about the well-being of my beautiful brown child.  She’s got a sharp tongue and a not so quiet loathing of law enforcement because of her early life experiences with them, and I wonder at what point will she get what she deserves?

I grew up in a nice working class neighborhood.  Kids played in the street and couldn’t ride their bikes around the block until they hit double digits.  Families went to church, celebrated together, cooked out together with Kool and the Gang and Sister Sledge playing in the background.  I slept over at friends’ houses.  My parents were considered strict, and at times it felt like they were very strict.  Other times not so much. It was a nice, wholesome experience. We had good people on our block, and I look forward to greeting them whenever I go home to visit.

And for our most immediate neighbors, 8 houses or so, my generation of kids grew up to be nurses, international attorneys, educators, engineers, members of the armed services, law enforcement and members of the clergy.  In the same homes, some of my cohort grew up to suffer from substance abuse, to deal drugs, to rob banks and to murder.

These folks all had siblings who did well, in the same home with the same parents.  It troubles me that those parents might be judged exclusively on the kids who grew up to make a mess of their adult lives, rather than the ones who excelled.  But because we are indoctrinated to believe we are responsible for our kids (even as adults), as opposed to our kids and that they are a complete reflection of our child rearing, the pressure we apply to ourselves not to eff up is crushing. And the truth is that often we don’t mess up, but our kids may very well mess up somewhere down the line.

If only child rearing, and child rearing while black, were so simple as to just not raise a criminal.

Chile, please exit stage left with that foolishness.

External judgment doesn’t hold a candle to the internal machinations of trying to figure out what the hell you’re doing on any given day. I have come to the conclusion that I’m, without question or competition, my own worst critic. I second guess ohhhh about 80% of my parenting decisions, maybe less, maybe more.  I usually ride them out, but I am tossing and turning over them at night.

Calling out for a lifeline?  Naw, much too embarrassing.  Some well-meaning folks in my life have said some really messy stuff about my knowledge about kids and my parenting so basically my therapist is the only one who gets the full download.

But I do suck in all that negative energy; add a bunch of my own lack of confidence and just backstroke my way through the day of figuring out how to raise a kid, a kid who has some issues.  It’s foolishness really.  All of it is just a bunch of foolishness. And it’s hard to remember that when you’re just trying to cope with the hard stuff.

I’m now far more careful about passing judgment on Hope’s first parents and their failings.  I have no idea what brought them to the places they’ve gone in their lives.  I can only imagine that in the midst of whatever it was they went through, they were probably dragging themselves down because it feels like it could be impossible to be successful. I can’t say I know the depths of that pain, but I’ve learned my own pains and fears in parenting this year.  And some days it feels really awful.

So how are you supposed to have a reasonable confidence level, especially when you feel shamed and judged and some of that is internally driven?

I swear I wonder how some parents get up in the morning.  I guess some just don’t.  And we don’t talk about much of this at all do we?  The shame of experiencing some kind of “I have no effing idea what I’m doing so I’ll just keep it to myself” drives the quiet.  But it’s there.  At least for me it is.

So as I muddle through one of my own personal challenging seasons, I guess I’m also looking at ways of considering self-care differently.  More positive self-speak, more moments of quiet.  More exercise, some yoga, better food, more positive self-speak.  More tuning out parent shaming, more tuning out twisted concepts that everything Hope does reflects on me.  More effort in reconciling that what I think will be Hope’s long term best, may not what she ends up doing.  More effort to just guiding her to be a self-directed, well-adjusted young woman.

And more effort just trying to build confidence in my own parenting skills, however fledgling they may be.

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

March 2, 2014

In the Midst…

By AdoptiveBlackMom

I have just completed the last chapter of my dissertation.  And I did it during and immediately following one of the biggest, messiest crises of my life.  I’m telling you, my Holy Homeboy ain’t stunting on your “Woe is me, my life sucks,” kind of moments—he’s there to help you

Get.

It.

Done.

It is the only explanation for my ability to function during the last two weeks, much less finish up with the major writing.  Truth be told, I just want to lay in my bed for a few extra weeks  hours, which will occur tomorrow what with another DC area snowstorm scheduled to start at O-dark-30 tomorrow morning.  #sickofwinter

So, here’s my recap of this week’s life lessons and observations.

Hard times don’t last, but tough people do (with lots of help).  Cliché, right? It’s true.  Hope and I are settling back into our routine after a dramatic two week episode that saw the need for mental health interventions, a belligerent social worker who kept suggesting that I broke the kid, fall outs with Grammy that managed to include the word “failure,” tears, more tears, stress eating,  full on emotional meltdowns, phone calls, texts, instant messages from kind friends who dragged my emo butt through the muck and mire back to sanity, and one special person who managed to strap me to the couch for a day of rest on an emotional island.  Somewhere along the way I pushed out a few work projects and got this dissertation draft done.  I think I can really do this.

Resilience is a blessing.  As much as trauma is long lasting and contagious, our ability to bounce back from “stuff” is nothing short of amazing.  I had to do some really, crazy, “never thought I’d be here, but here I am” stuff during the last two weeks.  Hope experienced some schnitt that I wish wasn’t necessary on the path to jelling our little family.  I thought she would punish me (she still might); I thought I would lose her.  I thought about every possible catastrophic outcome.  And yet, in the end, here we are sitting watching some stupid kid movie on Netflix, soaking up some together time.  Occasionally, she gets up to just give me a hug.  I didn’t know if we would have this a week ago, but here we are.  Oh, I know that we will have drama in the future, but we will survive.  We will prevail.  We will be happy.

Some people really are just bullies. Never in my life would I have imagined picking up a phone call from Hope’s social worker to hear her just yelling into the phone, upset about all that was going on.  Where do they do that?  Does that strategy work?  WTH!!??!!

After getting a couple of those calls when the woman had been updated with all the available information on the status of our crisis, I finally had to just check her.  You know, the kind of check that comes in quiet but informs your adversary that you ain’t here for their foolishness one more got-dern minute.  I gathered her up quick and got us on the same page.  I know she was trying to do her job, and apparently some folks just accept her behavior as being passionate about the kids.  Um, no.  You can be passionate without steamrolling over people.  No ma’am, you can just stop that madness right, damn now.   #nothavingit  #trymeonemoginandsee

Your capacity feels tiny, but it really is limitless.  There were moments when I wondered whether I could do any of this.  There were moments when I felt just paralyzed by what felt like a lot of emotional chaos.  There were things that had to be done, calls to make, emails to follow up on, specialists to chase down, social workers to call.  I went to work.  I stayed up late writing.  I was and am exhausted.  And somehow I just kept going.  At least once an hour I thought I should just stop.  I doubted myself.  I doubted my commitment to Hope.  I raged at God; wasn’t it supposed to be a little easier than this?  Just a little?  Did you really have to flex and show me you could save us?  #ialreadybelieveddang

And yet every day, I got up and I did as much as I could.  I muddled through it.  Some moments were prettier than others and there are now stacks of papers and crap that I will consider stabbing someone if they dare touch said stack or move it.  I don’t know how I managed, but I did.  I’m too tired to think I’m a superhero, but damn if I don’t feel like I should go buy a t-shirt with a cape.  Once I get some rest, I might go climb the Himalayas or something, you know because apparently I can.  When tested, you can do so much more than you thought.

Everyone’s life is messy.   A year or two ago, I came across an article on Yahoo about how Facebook was making people depressed because they were comparing their lives against all the happy faced pictures that all their friends were posting on Facebook.

Well, really, who’s going to post all the crap pics?  You know the one where your eyes are closed, the selfie you took after you wedged yourself in that outfit in the dressing room, the vacation picture that seemed innocent enough until some a-hole in your group posted it tagged you and now you feel like a killer whale in a bathing suit?  Yeah, those pics.
Our public lives are carefully crafted, and while it looks great, it’s a big farce.  Everyone has at least one hot buttered mess that they are wrestling with on the daily.   As I shared the details of the recent drama, lovely people in my inner circle confided their stuff too.  On some level, misery does love company, but only because it can be humanizing, validating, and well, in a moment of brutal honesty, you feel some hope that someone’s mess may sound as bad or worse than yours.  Sometimes it just helpful to know that you aren’t struggling alone.  Everyone has it bad.

Sometimes you need drugs.  Yeah, sometimes I’d love a nice herbal or to just pray my way through stuff, but sometimes you just need drugs.  And it’s ok to make the choice and damn the people who shame you and tell you that your kid needs to take karate or that you just need to exercise more.  They don’t know schnitt about what you’re experiencing.

New drugs were introduced into our lives recently.   I was worried; I still worry.  I don’t want Hope on drugs forever and ever, but a week and a half in, I can see that this drug will provide us with the headspace to work on emotional coping skills and adjustment struggles.  The social worker gave me hell about this particular drug, but you know what, she’s never actually lived with Hope.  In a shared living environment, I’m seeing what Hope really struggles with and I’m working to get her what she needs to ensure her long term success.  Mama knows. This short term relationship with drugs is a good thing for us and again, if you disagree, just move it along.

It’s late and I’m exhausted.  And well, I just finished writing my dissertation, ok?  This is it for tonight.  I’m hopeful and optimistic that we will continue to heal and grow.  We survived because we’re survivors.

15 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Lessons Learned, Post Placement

February 14, 2014

Living Rooms, Kinky Coils & Mama/Daughter Bonding

By AdoptiveBlackMom

So, I’ve made an appointment for Hope to get her hair braided this weekend, but first we had to take out her current braids, wash, condition and blow out her hair to prep it.  I’ve been eager to do this since she got here.  I wear my hair in its natural state: curly, kinky, coily; so does Hope, but most of the time her hair is hidden away in braids.  I wanted to learn more about Hope by doing her hair.  I also wanted to have the little girl/mommy time that comes with doing hair.

When I was a child, my mom washed my hair in the kitchen sink while I stood on a small chair.  Then she painstakingly blew out my hair with a hair dryer, followed by getting it straight using a comb heated on an eye of the stove.  She would then either braid our hair or put it up in ponies.  The whole process took about 2 hours—I had a lot of hair.  Then she’d tackle my two younger sisters’ heads, both of whom, at various times, had hair down to their waists.  Grammy was tired after it was all over, but she loved to see us with our hair all fresh and styled up.

There was an intimacy in those moments that I now more deeply appreciate.  I always trusted Grammy to make me pretty.  We would sometimes talk or even sit in silence, but getting my hair done on that small chair in the kitchen with Grammy was my time with her during hectic weekends.  I had her undivided attention.  She would fret over the health of my scalp and hair.  She would cluck if she used too much heat on my hair or nicked my ear with the hot comb (long before flat irons).  She would wail when I took scissors to it mid-week to cut crooked, too short bangs because she had to figure out how to help me hide them until they grew out.  Even though it was a chore, it was something so selfless that Grammy did to care for me and to make me pretty.  Looking back it was a special thing we shared.

I wanted to share that with Hope.  I had to use a dining room chair in the living room instead of a tiny kiddie chair in the kitchen, but I got it done.

It took an hour to take Hope’s braids out, and more than 30 minutes to detangle it and get all the shed hair out (which incidentally was a lot, like think yeti).

I explained why I don’t use shampoo to cleanse (I find it too drying for my curly tresses), and yes, Hope, I go through large quantities of conditioner.

I explained that I don’t use towels on my hair because my hair can catch in the terry loops and break; instead I buy t-shirt fabric since the nap is gentler on my hair.

Yes, Hope, I use olive oil and coconut oil at various stages of the ‘hair-doing’ process.  No, coconut oil does not smell like a pina colada, like you might think; it used to though.  No, I don’t know why that old coconut oil grease used to smell like that.

I listen when she says she has “bad” hair (meaning it’s very kinky or coily, not straight), and I try to educate her that there is no such thing as “bad” hair.   Her dark brown and black curly hair is lovely.  And it’s so very thick.  It lies down at the first sign of heat, though.

I listen when she feeds me the line, “When my hair is blown out, it’s down my back.”  She has a lot of shrinkage, but it is not down her back.  It takes me back to the short haired girls who used to tell me that same line, when I arrived at school on Mondays with my long ponies swinging.  I remember how I couldn’t understand that science of how their hair could be longer than mine.  It wasn’t.   It never really mattered, but I see it for the self-esteem/self-identity issue it really is now.  I see Hope struggling with long hair desires, too.  She asked me for a weave earlier this week.  I said no. I’m not anti-weave, I just don’t think she needs a weave at 12.

Yes, you need to try to learn what your hair likes and what it needs to make it thrive.   I have gone through many products; we’ll figure out what your hair likes.

‘Oh, so the scalp massage feels good?”

She almost fell asleep, cooing how good it felt.

“Oh you like the paddle brush too?”

Hope begs me to keep brushing her strands after her blowout.

I explain why I need to trim her broken ends.   I don’t have to cut as much as I thought.

I explain what a twist out is, and how it’s usually how I style my hair.  I set her hair similarly.

Please, hold your head up. #phraseinheavyrotation

I am sad that her lovely tresses will be hidden in braids again by this time tomorrow.  She can keep them for 3 weeks, but then I want to have this experience again.  I need to  experience this with her again.

I want to coach my little naturalista to love herself and her hair.

That was five hours (yes, Lawd—FIVE!!!) of near bliss.

13 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , | posted in Lessons Learned, Post Placement, Tween Parenting

January 17, 2014

Four More Days

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Four days remain before Hope arrives.  It’s been a really busy week.  I’ve been staying up late writing, trying to finish the next chapter of my dissertation.  I’ve been in FL for a couple of days for work.  Things are blowing up at work, and it’s really like things are swirling around me.  I’m looking forward to getting home tonight, getting a good 8 hours of sleep, getting some exercise and a good healthy meal and deep conditioning of the fro and getting back to writing. 

I haven’t really had much time to be anxious since my last post.  I’m too busy and too tired.  I do feel like there’s some “stuff” I should be doing to get ready for Hope’s arrival, but I honestly don’t know what that “stuff” is except for having some quiet time to myself to rest and get my head on straight. 

I also had a revelation a couple of nights ago as I was sorting through some data to write about…I am a bit stressed about getting this dissertation done but I have complete confidence that I will get it done and that I will get hooded in May.  I am a bit stressed at work, but I am confident about the quality of my work, my expertise in my area and my ability to not just do my job, but do it well (Dear Dr. Beach—if you are reading this, I know I’ve blown that deadline though…I’m working on it!).  I get it done. 

So in a moment of exhausted dissertation writing and life pondering and conscious searching I asked myself whether I was confident that I could be a good mom.

Somewhere inside I heard a very small voice yelling, “Well, of course you can be a good mom.” 

I’ve spent a lot of time losing my ish about all the things that could go wrong and how I could “break” Hope or just fail and somehow fail miserably.  I know that I will still feel those things, but I can do this.

I saw a lovely little TinyBuddha quote today,

“There are no failures. Just experiences and your reactions to them.”

~Tom Krause.

Yeah, that. 

Folks who know me well, know I’m a fixer—not an Olivia Pope banging the married president kinda fixer—rather, I stumble onto a problem and I have a deep compelling need to fix it.  Even when it’s really my problem and it’s emotional, I allow for some emotion and then it’s all about business to get that situation turned around.  I’m a control freak and I thrive in environments in which I have some control in how to create the desired outcome. 

Hope joining my life isn’t a problem—far from it—but her arrival ripples every corner of my life in ways I have zero control over. I haven’t had that kind of sustained life upheaval…well, not since I was an only child and Sister K was born (I totally freaked out when she came along.  Terrible.  To this day I have blocked the memory of her birth—I was 5!  I should remember!)

Anyway at 12 Hope’s a real live person who has opinions, thoughts, beliefs and experiences all her own, but frankly she doesn’t have much control over her life.  I have more control than she does, but my life is changing so much that it simply makes it hard to remember how much control this control-loving freak really will retain. 

So in addition to just figuring how to adapt in a way that helps me regain some control, I have come to realize this week that it really isn’t about control as much as it is to how I react to what happens next with me and Hope.  It’s scary.  It’s a huge step into the unknown. 

But I can do this.  I can be a mom, and I can be a good mom (I’m totally writing this for my own benefit, here).  I have confidence in these other areas of my life, I can be confident as a mom too, right?  I can believe that I won’t mess up too much.  That I won’t break her.  That I will do my best.  That I will stumble and that I’ll do some incredibly stupid things, especially in weak moments, and there will be weak moments.  I will be miserable during the learning curve, which apparently never ends, but I will learn.  I will finish raising an amazing young lady.  And I will be proud of her and I will be proud of me. 

I’m going to fight to be kind and forgiving to myself. 

I can do this.

Just a four more days.

2 Comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in The Transition

September 25, 2013

Adapting to Change

By AdoptiveBlackMom

The last few days have been a bit of a whirlwind.  After being told to “take your time” putting together my photo book, I get a message at the end of last week asking it where it was and that my phone calls with Hope won’t start until after she has the book.   I ask many questions each week about the sequence of events, expectations, deliverables, etc.  No one pointed this out and I dropped everything and got the book done and ordered.  I hope it will be delivered later today, and I can make arrangements to have it sent out tomorrow so we can keep things moving.

I’ve also been anxious about scheduling visitation with Hope.  I’m desperate to see her and talk to her and spend time with her.  I gave some dates in the second half of October since I’m traveling for work soon and those dates had been locked in for a while.  Ha?! I get a late night email asking if I can come in about 15 days.  Yep, in about 2 weeks!

I got this email right before bed and had a complete and utter meltdown all night long.  I finally had to get up and take something for my anxiety around 1am.  It barely dulled the edge but it least it allowed me to go to sleep.

I’m dropping everything to go see Hope.  It’s what I want to do.  What I’m supposed to do.  What I’m entitled to do.  She is the most important thing in my life. I can’t wait to see my girl!

My late night anxiety stems from a couple of things:

First, there’s the awful realization that I really have been too entangled with my job; I’ve allowed it to define too much of me.  I naturally have a ‘fixer’ personality.  I like problems; I fix problems.  Work has a lot of problems and my job allows me to do a lot of research-based problem solving.  I love my job.  I am very accomplished in my work and within my sector, I am nationally recognized for my work.  I like that.   Admittedly, I like that lot.  What I do for a living has had a huge role in shaping my identity for the last decade.

I knew that my new identity as a mom would change some of that.  I’ll still do the things I do, but my focus and passions are split now.  My job doesn’t have full ownership of my identity.  Having to rearrange my schedule is technically easy; I didn’t anticipate having some kind of emotional response to it other than, “Dueces, folks—Mommyhood beckons!!”  This is the first time literally and symbolically that I see this identity crossroads I often hear about.  Yikes.  Achieving balance—a real tangible, livable version of it, not the stuff of magazines—is going to make me stretch again.  I anticipated the stretch, but I didn’t anticipate feeling it so strongly so quickly.

Second, I have probably fretted for more than an hour last night about how my boss will react to the news.  I finally announced the adoption to my staff yesterday.  I work in a small office,e and it was a hard secret to keep for so long.  Everyone was incredibly supportive, including my boss.  But that was before I planned to cancel a trip that we just confirmed I was making less than 24 hours ago.

My boss is incredibly supportive of my work and was very supportive of this new development in my life.  But here I am wondering what will be his real reaction to my canceling a trip because of Hope? All the questions about work, motherhood and having “it all” that I’ve managed to side step for 20 years all pervaded my thoughts in the middle of the night—which is an awful time for me to try to mull things over.   I am tired!

Finally, there’s the heavy anxiety associated with finally meeting my daughter in the flesh.  Now that dates have been proposed, it feels even more real than it did the day before.  Our mediated communications are very positive, and I’m finally chatting with her foster mom about day to day things.  What will our week in September really be like?  I know what it will be like:  It will likely mimic Chris Rock’s skit about dating someone’s representative.   We will both be on our best behavior, navigating one another’s newness, trying to build something.  It’s awesome and overwhelming too.  I can’t wait.  But it’s also contrived and hard to pull back layers of anything in a week.  But I can’t wait to make the trip and see my girl.

It’s probably all normal, but I don’t see much about these huge emotional lifts in the books, and with me deep in my dissertation research and writing, I haven’t much time to read too many other blogs these days.  But, I’ll adapt.  Plenty of women make it work.  I’ll figure it out.  In a few weeks to months, I’ll reflect on last night and kick around my mind around why I fretted so much about setting the visitation schedule and then being so anxious about it.

For now, I need to go put on a pot of coffee.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in Lessons Learned, The Transition

September 9, 2013

A Kid, You Know, a Small Human

By AdoptiveBlackMom

I’m a dog person, a pretty serious dog person.  I’ve owned The Furry One since he was only 8 weeks old.  He sleeps with me.  He rides shot gun in the car without even having to call “Shot Gun!”  He’s my little buddy.   I love most other people’s dogs; and if I don’t it is usually because of the owner not the dog.  I just really love dogs.

So, this morning when I stopped by the front desk of my condo building to ask a favor related to the adoption and thus disclosed that I was adopting, Mrs. G (the desk attendant) raised a shady eyebrow and asked, “Adopting a what?”

I smiled and replied, “A kid, you know. a small human, so I think that’s a ‘who’.”  Mrs. G laughed and said, “I thought you were announcing you were getting another dog.”  She then gushed with the nicest, sweetest, supportive comments and posed for a picture for the book I’m creating for Hope.  She will see Mrs. G every weekday at the desk as she heads off to school, so I wanted to include her in the book.

And so it goes.

I know that I have written a bit about those individuals around me who have said things that are not really supportive of my choice to adopt or are just insensitive when yammering on about childbearing and child-rearing.  I acknowledge that most of these comments come from a place of ignorance rather than malice, and I’m trying to learn how to manage my emotional reaction to that static.

The reality is that most of the people in my life are really, very supportive.  A friend painted Hope’s room white so we can start decorating with a fresh canvas.  I’ve had people offer airline points to help me visit Hope when the time comes.  I’ve had friends offer to connect with me with friends and relatives who live in the area to help me secure information about school districts, places to stay, places to eat and supportive shoulders to lean on.  I’ve got friends and family close by and far, far, far away who excitedly ask for updates.  There’s a “tween shower” in the works to help welcome Hope to her new home.  Even my HR director squealed with delight today when I asked about family leave options for the next year (I never got to take family leave with The Furry One in nearly 14 years!).   A young cousin already has plans to talk hair and nails and all kinds of teenish activities with Hope.

So, although those folks who say less supportive things lance me deeply, I have this amazing group of people in my life who are committed to helping me be a successful mom.  They help me patch the wounds up pretty quickly and carry on.

I don’t see too many people of color adopting.  I have heard that in-family adoptions can be more common within families of color.  As I started this process, I didn’t expect the lack of role models to affect me so deeply.  It was only after a few months of running around filling out paperwork and taking my required training that I really started to feel lonely.  I also started wondering how my extended family would react to this decision.  I come from an amazing extended family, and they never gave me any reason to think they wouldn’t be supportive.  But this was such a radical path for me, and for us, that I just didn’t know.  This isn’t a path I had much exposure to growing up.

I’m grateful, and relieved, to know that my Hope and I will be loved, supported and even championed among my family and friends.

I’m also getting better about asking for what I need, thanks to a great therapist who nudges me a long when I occasionally get stuck.  I recently asked my agency for some families who could be my cultural touchstones as I navigate this process.  I wished I’d asked six months ago; my agency sent me over a list of folks right away.

So, in spite of those annoying folks who say silly things; my love and support cups are getting filled.  I am blessed to have such wonderful people in my life.

Funny thing is…if I had just paid attention to how they treat me on issues related to The Furry One, I probably would have realized that the addition of a human child to my family wouldn’t have been a big deal.

Love me, love my kid and my dog.

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