Tag Archives: African American Adoption

First Adoption Crisis In Progress

This past week has been nothing short of exhausting.  I’m grateful for my friends and some family and many fellow bloggers who have offered support.  I am not alone.  It makes me sad that so many families slug through these trauma-induced swamplands, but it is helpful to the spirit to know that I’m not alone.

So, here’s what I’ve come to know this week:

This “Sandwich Generation” mess is a bitch.   So sandwich generations are the folks who are sons and daughters of living parents and who are parents themselves.  In this midst of this mind-blowing crisis with Hope, Grammy has been absent.   Honestly, I want my mommy, and she’s not out there.  She did share that she had a passion for kids like Hope, but she didn’t say she had a passion for me.  She did say that she didn’t agree with my decisions regarding Hope.  She raised questions about my ability to raise Hope as a single parent.  While I sit at the bedside of a kid who is presently telling me she hates me 100 times a day, I also sit and wonder what I did to deserve this Grammy freeze out.  I feel like I’m catching it from all sides.  My life is filled with gray at the moment when I prefer the definitiveness of black and white, so I’m inclined to just tell Grammy to kick rocks and go play in traffic.  Sigh, but that probably doesn’t meet the WWJD standard now does it?

I am resentful about the need to be the bigger person.  I’m pissed about feeling like I need to act like an adult.  I’m annoyed as all get out that Grammy has failed to be the person I’ve built her up to be.  At church this morning I went to the altar to ask for special prayer for me and Hope.  The sermon had been about relationships that provide refuge in times of trouble. #messagefromGod The parishioner who prayed with me this morning asked, among other things, that all members of the family strive to act appropriately, as Jesus would, during this crisis.

Well, dang. So convicted…

Fall down 7 times, and keep getting up.

So, I will continue to pray that the relationship with Grammy be restored and that we both act as one another’s refuge.  In order to do this, I’ve got to let this pissed-off’dness go.  #notreallyready

Yeah, I’m going to have to ask to be delivered from this anger and hurt and ushered into a space of forgiveness.

Something tells me I’m going to have to pray *that* prayer repeatedly. #lowSouthernBaptisthum #shadysideeye

Anger and hurt deliverance prayers for everyone!!  In dissecting this mess with Grammy, it’s not lost on me that Hope and I share a lot of parallels.  Like Hope, I’m struggling with all the new expectations, the new roles, the fear, the anger when expectations are not met; only I’m feeling this mess towards my own mother.  So prayers are going up that my Hope also be delivered from the anger and hurt she feels after so many years of disappointment.

Friends are everything.  Old ones and new ones…You learn who your friends are on this journey.  Your closest circle knows the most or as much as you are willing to share; they peep through the window and then they extend their hand, a handkerchief, a hug.  They are compassionate.  Even when they don’t know what to say, the empathy that rolls off of them gives you something to hold on to.   I was telling a new friend this week about my love of the book of Job; I find it to be a fascinating expose on man’s relationship with God.  My friend, who was trying to convince me to just allow some folks to care for me this week, chastised me by saying, “Well you know, Job’s friends weren’t really schnitt, but they showed up.  Let me show up for you.”

That was too deep, and my sassy “I got this” façade came crumbling down.  And I’m better for it.

I’m also delighted that my Holy Homeboy has seen fit to begin a new season with an old friend who was my bestest bestie until a stupid falling out nearly a decade ago.  A week before this crisis started, we ran into each other at the local Costco.  I’ve missed her so much that we later both admitting to crying after the interaction as we continued to shop in Costco.  Her reintroduction into my life has been a special blessing.

Adoption drama needs its own version of Google Translate.  It’s incredibly hard to spend time with someone who just says they hate you over and over again.  Absurdly Gorgeous Therapist (AGT) called me to check in and reiterated that new adoptive parents must bear the brunt of all the anger of trauma and lost these kids feel.  Yeah, dude, I know.  But that ish is whack.  Yeah, there, I said it.  It totally sucks arse to sit and just be the whipping post.  Oh, and let me not to forget to mention her boundary pushing efforts to be just generally rude and obnoxious. I think we should have a google translate app for every crappy moment.

Kid says: “I hate you!  I wish I’d never come here!  I wish you would just go away and die.”

Google Translation: “I’m not sure how to love or be happy, but you’re nice and kind and I have no frigging idea how to take that.   Please don’t stop being kind to me and for God’s sake, don’t leave me!”

Yeah…adoptive parents need that app and we need it yesterday.

Encouraging Turnarounds Lurk about.  Yesterday Hope said she would stop speaking to me forever.  I calmly replied that that might be kind of hard living in the house together, especially since she needs me for stuff.  Why not think about the things she might need to talk to me about…she started making a list and inside I smiled because it was one effing long list.  She needs me.  When she was done I said, sounds like we might have to talk a lot.  Today, she talked and played with me; ever so often she would announce, “I’m still mad at you. I still hate you.”  I just replied, “I know.”  She let me hug her for the first time in 5 days.  That’s got to be some kind of progress right?

Stress is the devil.  So remember when I said detangling Hope’s hair last week was like pulling out a yeti?  Yeah, well, I’m so stressed that my hair is now shedding like yocks of hair.  I swear I harvested a guinea pig out of my head this weekend.  Sigh…

I’ve cooked for the first part of the week and am really going to try to stay hydrated and rested.  I actually got a zit this weekend!?!?!  Zits at 41 are no bueno.  I need to find a happy place stat.  Today was all about hair and skin conditioning.

I have writers’ block.  I estimate that I only have about 10 pages left to write on my dissertation.  Needless to say, I’ve been distracted.   I cannot continue to dwell on this dang chapter; I need that cognitive energy for other things.   I pushed out a page today, but I need to pick up the pace.

The Furry One just likes to go pee in Hope’s room.   Yeah, he just does.  I’m going to go buy a Bissell Green Machine, and we’re going to have to learn to keep Hope’s door closed when she’s out and about.  My old dog is just an old dog, doing old dog things, I guess.   I still love him.  #shrug

So, that’s this week’s lesson recap.  This too shall pass; I know it will cycle back.  I’ll be more prepared next time.  I’m hopeful that this week, Hope and I can make progress, that we can get back to a little piece of our version of normal.  I hope my face doesn’t break out and my hair stays put.  I hope for more friend bonding, less dog messes to clean up and a completed dissertation.

Amen.


The Sand Storm that is Trauma

Hope is terrified of the idea of normalcy, of family, of happiness.  All of this fear and anxiety manifests itself like a furious sand storm that just beats you in the face with no end, goes up your nose, gets lodged in your ears.  It covers your hair, your eyelashes, your clothes.  The angry sadness finds its way under your finger and toe nails.  It’s in your private parts.  It’s gritty, painful, it’s everywhere.  It’s dangerous; it’s deadly.  It chokes Hope.  It chokes me, too.

sandstorm431x300

I knew I was going to fight this sand storm from the very beginning, but this week, it’s been relentless.  My beautiful Hope is stuck in all this sadness and anger and if the sand storm analogy wasn’t bad enough, my girl’s lack of hope for herself and the life she can have with me is sucking her in like quick sand.   I am doing everything I can to pull together all the resources necessary to drag her out of that sand.

I am so tired this week.  And I am terrified too.

She has described my very existence as really being the root of so many of her problems. I know it’s not true, but it lances a tiny bit of blood every time she suggests it.  In nearly the same breath that she’s cursing me, she will demonstrate a kindness towards me from somewhere so deep inside of her that is like the smallest most precious drop of water in a hot desert.

I see glimpses of her desire to just be happy; but they are fleeting.  They are overwhelmed by all the fear, pain and hurt. During some hours, it feels like there is nothing I can say to ease any of it.  The defiance is so rough that she will just deny anything and everything just so she can have some control.

The sky is blue.  No, it’s not; it is purple.

I love you.  I hate you.  I don’t want to live here.

I want you to stay here with me forever.  No you don’t; you want to throw me away.

Sigh.

It just doesn’t stop.

Trauma is just so awful. It makes people just believe they have no self-worth; that they aren’t deserving of anything that could possibly, conceivably be construed as love, hopefulness, joy, normalcy.

I’m finding that aspects of trauma are contagious.  Oh, I have experienced nothing like my lovely Hope has, but her trauma has now become my trauma.  Her pain is now my pain.  Her anger is now my anger.  Living with her, it’s all become mine too, but I’m the one responsible for helping her find her way, our way, out of this mess.   It is consuming and overwhelming.  It also hurts like hell.

People ask me how I’m doing.

Sigh…

I’m just doing.  I’m living moment to moment, hour to hour, day to day.

I take a lot of deep breaths.

I cry a lot.  I cry for her.  I sob for her and all the dreams I have for her.

And I do this mostly in private, because how can you explain to people that Hope doesn’t understand how to be happy?  How can you explain that her fear makes Hope say she hates you?  How can you explain that Hope’s trauma is so consuming that she wonders whether she can just survive the day?  How can you get people to understand the long term effects of trauma in the face of being offered a “good life?”

You can’t.  So, mostly, you just don’t try.  So you live this process alone.

It’s really lonely.   Even when you have people around who are supportive and grasping to understand, it is still lonely figuring out how to survive the most irrational behavior you’ve ever experienced.  There are things you don’t dare share.  There are things you can’t imagine saying.  God forbid you say something that makes someone wonder quietly or worse, out loud, that it might be all your fault.  If the drama of trauma doesn’t keep you up at night, the fear of that kind of judgment will.

Yes, trauma is contagious.

And yet, I try to have hope for Hope even while she pushes me away and spews venom that hurts my heart.  I just want to hug her.  I want her to just stop resisting and rest in my arms for a good cry.   I want to soothe her tears, smooth her hair from her face, look into her brown eyes and tell her that I’ll love and protect her always, that it really will be ok.  I want her to understand that she doesn’t have to test me; I’m not going anywhere. I just wish she would stop fighting.

I just want the sandstorm to stop.

It’s only been a month today since she arrived, and I know that the reality is that the storm is just starting.


The Day After Someday…

One day I may share the details behind these feelings in more detail, maybe, maybe not.  Just know that today rates as one of the lowest days of my life.  This adoption thing is a beast.  Trauma lingers and just wreaks havoc long, long after the original incident.  It’s stunning how the long the reach is and how devastating its touch remains.

Today was so difficult because I had to step up and be the mom of a child who has endured unspeakable trauma.  I’m not proud of the stripes I had to earn with the decisions I had to make today, but I made them just the same.   And I am heartbroken by them.   I have had some tough days in this life, but few will compare to the day I had to make a decision that will be one of my and Hope’s life crucibles. I know that everything will change after this.  It’s scary, but there’s also hope in the midst.  Just know that today was a tough, tough day for me and for my lovely Hope.  But tomorrow will be a new day for us.

Tonight I am practicing my own self soothing behaviors watching trash tv, eating fried chicken fingers, eating a rustic loaf of bread slathered in butter and cheese and losing myself in a bottle of blush vinho verde…yeah, the bottle, it’s yummy.  Oh and I’m trying to catch up on a few things at the office.  I shudder to think how my late night, tipsy emails about spreadsheets will read in the light of day.  Oh well.

My wish this evening is that someday my precious Hope will find it in her heart to know that the drastic decision I was forced to make today was in her best interest, that I did it out of love, that I did it to save her.  I hope someday, sooner rather than later that she won’t be so very sad about leaving bad things behind and embracing goodness and light, and that she will, on her own volition, someday choose to step into happiness in this new chapter with me, the Furry One and all of the many people who have come to love her after only a few weeks and months.

I hope someday that the trauma of the necessity of my decision will fade and that the hurt, anger and downright fury born today will be replaced with love, joy and true healing.  I hope someday that she will know and trust that I will always have her back, to care for her, to always put her essential needs first.  In the face of anger and heartbreak I proved that today.  I hope that we both recover from all the events of the day and that we will find our happy together, healing and healed, safe and sound, loving and loved.

This journey is the greatest test of faith I have ever endured.  Everything before was a test for this moment. My Holy Homeboy doesn’t promise us peace, he promises us peace in the midst of the storm.  I’m still paddling in the storm; you can’t see all my tears because it’s just raining so damn hard.   But we’re going to be ok, we will make it.  Be encouraged, somehow, I am.

Amen.


Musical Monday-Life on the Upswing

So if you’re an old school, hip hop head like I am, you might’ve come across the delightful knowledge that De La Soul decided to give away their entire catalog for free on Valentine’s Day.  Now I had most of the music, but there’s nothing like getting something free, and there’s nothing like getting good music for free.  Double Yes, Yes!!!  So I’m on the couch with my noise-cancelling headphones bumping to the extended remix of Buddy while re-writing a paragraph of my dissertation.  #grooving

Why mention De La Soul and the headphones, you ask?  Because I’m also in a noisy power struggle with Hope, who is doing her damnedest to play her saxophone as schnittily as possible right now.  I’m making her practice daily in preparation for a graded concert later this week.   Girlfriend thought that the agreement we made during our family meeting yesterday would be sated with a half-arsed 10 minute practice session. I don’t think so.

Had the nerve to yell at me when I politely told her she needed to pull another 30 minutes out of a hat.

So now my house sounds like a flock of geese are being tortured.

Oh wait…Queen Latifah is dropping her verse…Me, Myself and I is up on the rotation next.  #stilljamming

Oh, she’s mad, but she’s playing though.  And I can barely hear her.  #winning #sorryneighbors #TheFurryOneisNearlyDeafandDoesn’tCare

Just a minor bump in the road on this nearly perfect Monday.  That’s right, nearly perfect!

I had an epic meltdown yesterday when she effectively made us so late to church that I couldn’t find a parking spot.  This after I baked the blue cake! I secluded myself in my room for about 90 minutes while binge watching House of Cards on Netflix. Yeah, I should’ve hit a bedside Baptist service online or on the tube, but I was all about gluttonous self-medicating in those moments.

Despite my cake and self-sequestration, our first home-visit went smoothly enough yesterday afternoon.  I often read how some folks deep clean the house and such before a visit.  I tidied.  Look lady, we live here—emphasis on the live.  Laundry isn’t fully done.  I did load the dishwasher, the puzzle we are working on is still on the table and I just noticed the jam stain on the front of my dress after I offered her some water and blue cake.  Get over it.  Fortunately, Ms. E is cool.  She gave us both some good coaching and reassured me that I’m going to survive and that we are doing just fine.  She’s actually very excited for us.

Yeah, still feels like schnitt, but ok.  I’m starting to believe it will get better.

I’ve been to the gym for the last three days.  I had a nice holiday today while Hope went to school.  I’m starting to feel a little more like my sassy self.

For the first Monday in about two weeks I feel like I might have a grip on things.

She has now been practicing 17 minutes longer than I required.  She’s also playing rather well, seeing as it took a lot of effort to play all mad and crappy and I can tell she is getting tired.

Well, look at that (grinning), ABM won that struggle, didn’t cry, didn’t break a sweat or a nail and jammed the whole time. #stillwinning #stilljamming

Just maybe I can do this. 🙂


The Blue Stress Cake

I make a small cake for myself almost weekly.  Really, it’s kind of my stress recovery cake, made on or around what I like to call “Turnaround Wednesday,” Hope’s behaviors begin to improve after a rough start to the week.  I’ve been doing reasonably well about not stressing eating since Hope got here.  I’ve even dropped a few pounds.  I don’t get to the gym as I’d like, but the cake is my salvo.

Hope has no interest in my cake.  The first week I made it, I covered my guilt about stress baking by decorating it to celebrate our first week together.  She wasn’t impressed and has never wanted a piece.

This week I made the cake on Sunday morning.  #saywhatnow?

I also had the gall to root around in my pantry to find food coloring.  I plucked out blueBlueBlue.  And I started adding drops.

Stressed much?

Now I’m looking at this stupid blue cake, thinking…I’m guessing there’s something to the fact that I made it blue.  Sigh..Blue sure is how I’m feeling.

Today is our first home visit.  I’ve tidied the house as much as I could, kicking myself that I agreed to do it before the housekeeper comes on Tuesday.  I have no idea how it’s going to go.  I’m not scared; I’m just feeling overwhelmed.  I need to do my progress report this week–we’ll celebrate a month together.

Is it wrong that aspects of it don’t feel like a celebration?  I’m miserable with flashes of happiness, which are appearing more like stunning moments of surprise.  Those moments are so fleeting right now.

I will likely cover my blue cake with chocolate frosting.  Yeah, I’m sure my therapist would have a lot to say about that “frosting as a covering” bit…but I do have blue sprinkles.  I found them in the pantry too.

Sigh…

Maybe I’ll offer the social worker some cake later.


Living Rooms, Kinky Coils & Mama/Daughter Bonding

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.


Three Weeks Post-Placement

It’s Friday and things are better.  Today is the second snow day this week and I’m wondering will the kids get any summer break around these parts.

Hope was delighted by the snow day; she’s a hard core nester/homebody.  She never got dressed, never bathed (I let it go for yesterday), and just was happy as a clam.

I was still sick with a racking cough.  I still have the racking cough, actually; I imagine it will be with me for a week or so.  I was kind of miserable.  I gave her lots of tablet time, made her practice her sax (Hey, it actually sounds like music now!) and lay in bed.  I fretted bit about how the house felt filthy to me, how I just wanted to sleep unencumbered and how I needed to go dig the car out so that it wasn’t so bad when the second storm hit later in the day.

I started to think about what I’m learning during this process.  I have been blogging more about my emotions in the moment and straying from the learning part.  It’s just been so overwhelming. So here goes my current list of observations and learned gems.

  • I know we’re improving even if it feels like walking across hot coals in hell.  She comes to me, she wants to be with me, and she gets frustrated when I say no but she is increasingly less likely to push me on things.  She’s never again asked to be taken back to WA.
  • There is a difference in when she decides to be straight up oppositional and when she is just being a typical annoying teen.  My dissertation research is, in part, about how personal values shape viewpoints on a particular issue.  There is a personal value called “face” that really is much like the desire to protect and preserve our public identities.  Anything that threatens what Hope perceives to be as personal identity space she digs in and digs in hard.  So teacher notes invade a space in which she is constructing her public persona.  School incidents are particularly threatening to how she sees herself and she will go down swinging to preserve her “face.”

Typical annoying teen stuff, she’s more likely to come to me later and tell me that her feelings were hurt by something I said or did—like when I told her “Fine, don’t wear your coat in 22 degree weather when you have a sinus infection.  Catch pneumonia <shrug>.”  Later she politely told me that hurt her feelings because she could die from pneumonia and surely I didn’t want her to die.  (I reminded her, no I didn’t want her to die, which is why I insisted on the damn coat #girlbye!)  Glad this dissertation is worth something more to me.

  • There so many things, like boundaries, that she wasn’t taught and must learn.  My biggest peeve is her traipsing into my room.  Yesterday she got into my bed.  Yeah, yeah, snuggling and all that, whatever.  I am desperate for some sanctuary and personal space, and my bedroom is IT.  I still tiptoe into my parents’ room back home.  Bedrooms are sacred space for me.  And despite several polite conversations, she just traipses in whenever she gets ready.  She’s walked in on me in my bathroom, getting dressed, you name it.  Drives me nuts and when I say something it’s all, “You don’t want me in your room,” with lots of attitude.  Yeah, you’re right, I don’t.  There I admit it.  It’s the only safe space I have.

While doing a puzzle in the living room yesterday during the storm, I also realized that she didn’t really know how to work on a puzzle with someone else.  She sucks up the table space by leaning all the way over such that her hands hang over my side of the table and will actually pick up pieces I am working on.  I had to take several breaks because it was almost invasive in a way that ruined the experience for me.  Yesterday was not the day to teach more about personal space, but clearly that’s something I need to work on with her.

  • There is a kindness of spirit in her.  She has made me tea every day that I’ve been sick.  She knows her skills of caring for me are limited so she focuses on what she can do.  At her core, she is such a sweetie.
  • A trip to the veterinarian determined that The Furry One is in the very early stages of kidney failure.  At 14 and 3 months, it is a normal sign of old age.  Given his overall health though, the vet confirmed that yeah, the rug pee fiasco of last week was indeed an declaration of war.  He’s actually engaging Hope more appropriately this week.  Had he been sicker I would’ve asked the vet to duct tape and paperclip this dog together, I’m way to unstable to lose The Furry One right now.  That would send me right on over the edge.
  • The weather is effing up my best efforts to get us on a consistent schedule.  I mean really, I can’t win for losing!  Two days off this week.  No band practice.  I’m increasingly behind at work.  It’s all a mess, I tell you.  And I know that the scheduling thing is going to be the way to glory for us.  I really need to have a talk with Mother Nature.
  • Prayer works.  Hope and I pray together twice a day.  She is responsible for one of the prayers.  I notice how her prayers have changed over the weeks.  The things she prays about are changing, she prays for our family.  She prays for The Furry One even though he peed on her rug.  She prays that she’ll have a better day at school.  I can’t honestly say that I’m deep in meditation when she’s praying because I’m trying to tune into what she’s saying and maybe not saying.  But her prayers are changing and I’m encouraged by that.
  • Hope is finally getting the concept of salvation.  She told me early on that she had been saved twice but it didn’t work; it didn’t “take” because she is so bad.  Lots of distilled theological conversations up in Casa de ABM.   She’s now talking about baptism and salvation and such.  She had a mini-meltdown this week when contemplating a lost family member and whether they were in heaven or hell; she didn’t know if they were saved.  It was a heartbreaking moment, but it revealed a few things to me:  She’s thinking about our talks, she’s applying those discussions, and she’s still grappling with grief.  I was sad for her, but I was also happy to know that I’m getting through that tough candy shell of hers.
  • She enjoys a little decadence, like we all do.  She gets excited to try new things, do things with me that foster families had previously promised but didn’t do and is thoughtful about each experience as it bonds us.  I’m the one who’s following through, who’s showing her something more.  She appreciates that.  One night a week is pizza night; during previous weeks we got take out.  This week I needed a fabric napkin experience as a Maslow’s Hierarchy element in my life (I loathe fast food) so I decided we would go out to eat.  She was almost overwhelmed by the local restaurant; she relished having a small appetizer and dessert.  She was tickled by the whole experience.  I was getting terribly ill during the dinner but I found such pleasure in watching her take it all in.
  • I had no idea 12 year old asked so many why questions.  Oh. My. God.  Why?  Why?  Why?  Why to random stuff that I’ve never heard about that happened when she was 8?  Why to random stuff that happened last week?  Why to something that happened on a random show she watched but I didn’t?  I thought in going with an older kid, I would bypass a lot of the “why” stuff.  No, not really.  I can see how stunted in some areas she maybe.  She wasn’t in environments when she could ask why; she is now.  I can see that I’ve created a safe space for her to do that.  I’m increasingly comfortable with say, “Sweetie, I don’t know.  Can we Google it?”  By the 18th time I try to recite that without sounding annoyed and exasperated.

So, it’s Friday, one of the days when I can be a bit more reflective.  Hope is still snoozing and I’ve tidied the house, taken out the trash, opened a window and let some cool air in to air out the sickie germs, and written this here post.  If I hurry, I probably can get to the grocery store to pick up a few things and GASP—get some Starbucks and some Valentine’s chocolates that I don’t have to share!!!  OMG, OMG so exciting!!

OMG—Hallelujah!  Peace out!


Testimony

ETA: Oy–so tired can’t even spell my titles right…

Last week was tough.  It was tough in so many ways.

My heart broke when Hope described her angst about going to school.  I was frustrated because I still hadn’t finished the conclusion of the chapter I was writing.  I was really scared by some of the things we discussed in the initial consultation with the absurdly attractive therapist (Side note: My GOD he’s is so handsome it hurts, and it might be a problem since I can barely look directly at him without thinking I’m going to burst into flames.).  I wasn’t very productive at work because I was consumed with home life and I have no idea when some semblance of balance will be discovered.  I was frustrated by all the paperwork I needed to complete, the scheduling that needed to happen, the permission slips that needed to be signed and the school fees that needed to be paid (I’m convinced school fees are the new hustle).  Oh and I registered Hope for a few camps for the summer that cost a grip.

Then I had to get us ready for our first road trip.  The road trip that involved a weekend with the Grands and a wedding to go to and Hope meeting her godparents—who happened to be the couple tying the knot.

Oh and how could I forget the Friday night post- travel, middle of the night, ER visit? We started our health care adventure at a local Patient First, where I enjoyed some same-race adoption privilege in which despite my fumbling efforts to pull out my care authorization everyone assumed she was my kid.  On the one hand the ease of it was cool, but then the nurse kept looking at me like I was stupid because I knew so little about Hope’s medical history.  When we got to the hospital later and I needed a bathroom break, Hope cut through all the BS while I was in the loo and just told everyone that I was her new mom via adoption—everyone was so nice, gave good advice and relieved my terror when, essentially, Hope was not really all that sick.

Got all that?  Heavy sigh!

I am astounded by how much I accomplished last week, and how much must be accomplished to keep my house running.  There is always something.  And the some things almost keep me from thinking about anything meaningful outside of the Hope universe.   I’m still sad about the things, the critical things that keep my individual life running that I simply can’t get to.  I still struggle with feeling incredibly selfish at times about my own sadness and angst.

I’m tired and weary, but looking back, I’m not broken.   Bruised, yes, but not broken.   Taking time to reflect on the week in its entirety gives me solace that I made it, and hopefully I can do it again next week.

And I’ll survive next week.  And the week after.

But it does come at a cost.  It’s worth it for moments like the one in the car this morning returning to the DC area; I insisted on playing gospel for the ride since we were missing church.  She broke out singing Marvin Sapp’s He Saw the Best in Me.

For her, she was just singing it; but for me, I know the song to be true for all of us and especially for her.  She’s been struggling to keep her badass persona and it’s crumbling, little by little each day.  So moments of testimony that she doesn’t yet realize are such, bring me exceeding joy and comfort in knowing that she’s doing ok.

Now I have to just to make sure I keep grinding, so I can also be ok and so we can thrive.

Special thanks to those who reached out to me concerning post-placement depression.  I wish my agency had some info on it during the process.  But I’m glad to have discovered this issue and I am deeply appreciative that my experience was validated.  I thought I was going nuts. Thank you.


Breaking the News

She whispered, “I’m not ready;” then she started to quietly cry.

My heart dropped, and I sighed. “I know.”

This is what happened when I told Hope about her moving date last night.  I told her gently, without a lot of hoopla, tempering my own emotions to make way for hers.  She didn’t get hysterical.  She didn’t wail.  She just quietly cried and sniffled.  She asked how long I knew.  She told me how her friends were happy that she returned to school from Winter break, even if no one knew how long she was going to be there.  She said she thought she had more time.

She asked for a few more weeks in Washington.  I replied no.  She counted the days until the move, sounding more anxious than happy.  She complained about not having enough time to pack.  I explained that I talked to her foster mom about making sure that her things were packed and shipped.  She sniffled some more.

I reassured her that I understood all the emotion.  The idea of moving across country, away from everything she’s ever known, is overwhelming.  The idea of getting a mom, when you haven’t had one, and a family who wants you, when you haven’t had one, is great but also overwhelming.

And she’s only 12; she’s just a kid.

I didn’t try to make her feel bad about her emotional reaction.  I sat quietly to just give her some space to think.  I told her I loved her.  I told her that it was ok to feel all she feels.

Hope’s foster mom saw her crying, and asked her why.  Hope told her about the move.

“Why aren’t you excited???” she said.  I could sense that Hope was a little stung by the reaction.  First she realized that foster mom knew before her.  Second, there was a sense of rejection; like foster mom was ready for her to leave rather than happy she was getting a family.  Foster mom followed up with more happy, happy, joy, joy encouragement.

Again, I followed up by telling her that it was ok to feel whatever she was feeling.

After about 10 minutes she asked me could she call me back after doing a few chores.  She just needed some time to think.  Sure.

Here’s what I didn’t say but felt the last couple of days.  I’m told it’s all “normal,” whatever that is.

  • I went from excited to terrified and back.
  • I’m suffering from disruptive sleep—either insomnia or falling asleep spontaneously.
  • I’m panicky about the list of a million things that need to be done.
  • I’m fretful if I made the right decision even starting this process (I know I did, but I’m totally irrational right now).
  • My eating is disrupted.
  • My stomach is in knots when I’m awake, which means just about all the time.
  • I can’t focus on things so my productivity is in the crapper.
  • I’m cranky (If this old witch in my condo building doesn’t stop asking me how my “roommate” is doing??? #b*tchplease!).
  • I’m beyond sad and hurt because I never would’ve dreamed Grammy and I would be estranged during this time in my life.
  • I’m trying to figure out who the new me will be; so many identity changes.
  • I’m sad I’m single (this foolishness again??).
  • I’m freaked about all the social worker/psychiatrist/therapist/doctor/principal/teacher visits.
  • I’m worried about the health insurance premiums.
  • I’m worried about the paperwork associated with changing all my benefits.
  • I’m wondering when I’m going to find time to have my will redone.
  • I’m worried I won’t be able to find the right voice teacher for the lessons I’ve promised.
  • I’m worried she’s going to flunk this school year, and what that might do to her emotionally, and what that will do to me emotionally.  I’m ok with the flunking, I’m  worried about her reaction.
  • I’m worried about getting my dissertation done, even though I had a huge breakthrough last night.
  • I panic that she’ll just reject me outright at some point.
  • I’m secretly jealous of adoptive parents with longer waits as though that somehow might make me more ready. It wouldn’t but the mind is so micky-flicky with irrational crap.
  • I’m scared I’ll mess up.
  • I’m glad she’s coming home, but I feel like I have no idea what’s going to happen after that.

And like I told Hope, I allow myself to feel all of this messiness.  It feels like crap.  Loads of crap.  I’m exhausted just looking at this absurd list, and I know this list isn’t even everything I’m feeling.  But, I know we’ll be fine.  Intellectually, I know where our struggle spots are, but eh, it’s the emotional stuff driving this bus at the moment.

Sigh.

I know I’m ready, even if I don’t have the confidence to really feel like it at the moment.  And I know that Hope’s ready, even if she loathes leaving everything she knows to start a new life with a loving family.

The 10 day count down starts today.


Minding the Gap

I remember when I had my first meeting with my adoption agency in January.  I had to explain how I had come to the decision to adopt and why I wanted to adopt an older child.  I remember telling the program director that this was an incredibly bittersweet time in my life; I had a few short months before been told by a reproductive specialist that I would not be able to have biological children without the help of a whole frigging school of engineering and even then the window of possibility was ridiculously Continue reading


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