Tag Archives: Lessons Learned

The Trip

Early on in my “vacation” someone posted a HuffPost article on my personal FB timeline that described the difference between a vacation and a trip when kids are involved.

I didn’t know.  Seriously, I didn’t know that I hadn’t been taking vacations for the last 18 months.  I had no idea that Hope and I were taking “trips.”

Oh, you bet your bottom, I know now, though.

So, picture it, two Fridays ago, I loaded up the Mini Cooper with a roof bag and piled Hope, Sister K and myself into car for a 9.5 hour drive to Boston–our first stop since I had 3 days of work to do there.

You know, it actually wasn’t awful.  We popped in an audiobook (Mitch Album’s The First Phone Call From Heaven), snarfed some fast food and took a couple of potty breaks before rolling up to our hotel at 11pm.

As if rolling to Boston with ish pilled on the top of my clown car like the Beverly Hillbillies wasn’t an indication that we were on a trip, real trip indicators were totally about to jump off.

We stayed in a super swank room–it was LAID! However, my office only booked a king room, so I ordered up a rollaway bed for Hope.

My girl was saltier than the Dead Sea that she would be relegated to the rollaway. Sister K and I were like:

YoDog

You betta go on and lay yo arse on that dang cot and go to sleep, girl.

Day 1 – Boston

I was tied up in 12 hours of meetings and presentations.  After I was done we hit up a restaurant for dinner.

Hope: I woud like the Bourbonzola Burger please.

Bourbonzola Burger appears.

Hope: No one told me gorgonzola cheese was on the burger?

No, really, why bother with reading the details on the menu.  It’s sent back and replaced by something more “suitable.”

Day 2 – Boston

I had a modest 10 hour day of  work so we hit up the Minions movie that evening. Nope, no popcorn, we’re going for dinner afterwards.

At a swank Italian dinner:

Hope: I’ll have the spinach and cheese ravioli please.

Spinach and cheese ravioli appears.

Hope: UGHHHHHH.  You know I don’t like that much cheese; I can’t eat this.

I can actually feel her willing me to share my proscuitto and fig flatbread pizza. I take a deliberate, exaggerated bite out of all 8 pieces and lick the ham too.

smug.gif-1

Not today, Miss, I am NOT sharing ish today.  #allthewaypetty

Then there was another huffy silent treatment prompted by her continued stay on the rollaway. #girlbye

Day 3 – Boston to Martha’s Vineyard

Hope: This BBQ sandwich is so huge. I can barely pick it up; I probably can’t eat it all. Do y’all want to taste it?

(Note: Don’t ever ask me or my sisters to have a bite of something that looks super tasty and expect to us to take itty bitty portions. Hope learned that day.)

Sandwich comes to the front seat.

Half of the sandwich returns to the back seat.

Hope chose to not eat the rest of the sandwich due to a wretched case of the hissies.

mileyy

By the time we got to the Vineyard and found that the keys and house info were not left in the realtors box for us, the driving, fatigue and trip-inspired annoyance resulted in me pulling off the road into the hospital parking lot and sobbing.

It got straightened out, and we had the pleasure of hearing Hope complain about this creepy house and the triggering of her bug phobia, thanks to a few creepy crawlies trolling the house at 11pm.

Just before we turned in, she declared —DECLARED—that I needed to only have her stay in hotels because she did not like this house situation and that’s what she prefers and I need to make her happy.

Listen…Whoooosaaaaaa.

Obama

Let’s just say I got her together quick and let her know that my fantasy is an actual vacation without her and that it could be arranged.

Day 1 – MV

Rainy, complaining, buggy, whiny.

I ended up showing Hope what a grown folks’ hissy fit really looks like. It was epic. It was real. I might as well had been Kanye.

kanye-west-charged-with-paprazzo-attack

The rest of the trip actually improved considerably. Hope and I had a great time, and she already wants to go back, of course, that has more to do with the little cutie at the ice cream shop, but still.  We settled into a nice routine; she even did chores in the rental. It was a good trip after all.

But yeah, it was definitely a trip and not a vacation!


Weekend of Respite

As planned I booked the sitter and a hotel room less than 5 miles from the house and fled for some much needed respite this weekend. In fact by 8:30pm each night, I was sitting in my jammies, swigging wine from a bottle in my room, contemplating my bedtime.

I slept about 10 hours the first night. I walked 3 miles the next morning while shopping. I slept 3 hours this afternoon—like back in the bed, under the covers, knocked out napping. I hit the elliptical for 45 minutes that evening. I ate carry out from Whole Paycheck [Foods], and, yes, drank wine straight from the bottle.

Gosh I needed that. I called Grammy the first evening and when she heard I napped she exclaimed, “That’s not even in your nature? You don’t nap.”

Yeah, I know. I’m exhausted.

I’ve noticed a few things while on this mini getaway.

I eat horribly when I’m stressed and exhausted. No wonder I’m at my highest weight ever. Ugh! I actually listened to my twisted mind tell myself I deserved a bunch of fatty foods (tasted good though). Today I started the Couch to 5K program. Let’s go.

My carpal tunnel has progressed to the point where I need to seriously consider surgery. How did I ignore the weakening of my hand? I mean, it’s really, really bad! Calling my doc this week.

I am really tired, like really tired. Must go to bed earlier.

The moment I get away from Hope, I actually miss her. Not enough to run home, mind you, but I do miss her, and I miss Yappy too.

I miss her but I know she was fine. I know because she texted me like 18 times and called me once. She was irritated because I could not resolve her minor problem, and she sat in silence on the phone furious when she realized that I was not going to hurry home to find the key for the bike lock. Nope, Hope, not gonna do it.

I was proud of myself that I did not buy her anything while out shopping. Admittedly, I saw a bunch of stuff I wanted to scoop up for her. I mean, the 8th grade prom is coming up! But nope didn’t buy her one thing.

I took care of me this weekend. I need to do this more often. I really do.

I see how parents get so run down; parenting, working, and running a household is exhausting. I like to think I keep up with a lot of stuff, but I forget all kinds of things—like Hope’s sports physical this past week. It didn’t make the master calendar and thus in my mind did not exist.

Cooking, cleaning, running errands, paying bills, packing lunches, emailing teachers, figuring out birth family stuff, figuring out adoption stuff, therapy appointments, medication management appointments, puppy school, band concerts, and oh yeah, my job!

I swear I don’t know how it all gets done because this isn’t even close to being an exhaustive (ironic) list. I often think it probably isn’t that much easier with a partner, but it seems like it certainly would help.

It’s hard to believe I did a better job of having respite last year than I have done this year. I can only say it’s the curse of being post-finalization and having some belief that things are “fine” now.

They aren’t.

Weekly, when I’m mindful, I see the evidence of Hope’s challenges, and although we have come a long way; there is so much further we must go.

I’m going to have to take a better care of myself if I’m going to help her face her challenges.

Two broken wheels on a bike never makes sense.

So, I’m hoping to really care for myself this summer. I’m going to try.


Recognizing Progress

So, this past weekend I hit the wall. Hard. A dirty food container sent me careening off the cliff of parental crazy.

Totally lost my ish. Parenting swagger went right out the window. It was terrible. And I kinda felt bad about it; note that I only said “kinda.” I did not totally feel bad about it.

I have been incredibly patient with a bunch of crazy ish that Hope and I have endured lately. I kinda knew there was risk of me totally going off. It was epic, kinda like the New Year’s meltdown during which I damaged my vocal cords so badly I could hardly talk for a week.

At one point Hope threw her reliable taunt, her trump card: “I wish I never moved here,” Girl, whatever. I replied “I love you but some days I wish that too.” #boom #didIsaythatoutloud #notmyinsidevoice

Credit: giphy.com

Credit: giphy.com

Yeah, that’s how we got down on Saturday. Ugh. I did yell this time, not as much though. #improvement And I took 2 hours to cool off before going to talk to her calmly about the issues. Then I left the house for another two hours to go do some shopping and run errands.

This was not how I planned to spend my weekend. I’m pretty sure it is not how Hope intended to spend her weekend either. I prepped dinner and well, what’s the rule? Don’t go to bed angry? #thatscute

Yeah, eff that. Saturday I realized I gave all I had to give; there was nothing left in the tank but reptilian brain functionality. In other words I was only capable of being pissed. Instead of yelling I just went into Elsa mode.

Um, yeah, she had to be

Um, yeah, she had to be “color corrected.”
Credit is embedded.

Minimal speaking and the provision of basic necessities. I signed progress reports, prepared meals, visited a new church (including acting like Hope actually belonged to me, which was a serious effort in grace and charity, since I *literally* wanted to drop her off at the local Goodwill).

Sunday was still frigid.

Monday, I was still frosty, and Hope was running so late that she didn’t have time for breakfast so she picked up the lunch I prepped for her and we said nothing more than good bye, have a good day. I cooked burgers for dinner and hid my nose in the latest US Weekly while poor Hope tried several times to initiate conversation.

“Would you like to see my new band T-shirt?” Nope. “Sure.” Looks at shirt, nods.

“Ms. D says I’m distracted in math because I and sitting next to [her crush du jour].” “So change seats if you know this is a problem.”

“(Very dramatically) I’m sooooooo tired. I mean, I’m exhausted. I think my head feels hot.” “You should go to bed early; SOL testing starts tomorrow.”

And she did. In bed at 8pm. Not sure if she cried, but I know she was sad and the slightly recovering parts of my scattered mind thought to console her and warm my heart. But my reptilian brain convinced me I was fine and she was fine. I made sure her alarm was set, and I fetched myself a glass of pinot and the remote to watch Love and Hip Hop: ATL.

I ain’t checking for Hope.

And as other brain functions return, I know I should feel some kind of way about that, but don’t bother guilting me about icing my daughter out. As I sit here 4 days later, I still am having a difficult time turning on the functional systems necessary to be warmer. I simply do not have the capacity for more than minimal interaction or base level care-taking.

I am empty.

I remind myself a lot of Hope when she first moved in and was so overwhelmed. I simply cannot tolerate more. The thought of attempting a meaningful conversation has me reaching for the Ativan to stave off a panic attack.

I begged the sitter service for a sitter for this weekend. They found me one. So I’m booking me a hotel, and I’m flying the coop for two nights. I did not even invite Elihu because I don’t want to consider another human being’s needs for these two nights.

So, while I’m down for the count, I get a call from a new parent with my agency. She’s a little more than 3 weeks in. She’s still at the stage where you’re counting the days, minutes, seconds. She’s still at the stage (for us singles at least) where you take your calls in the furthest bathroom in the house, in the shower, kind of whispering because you are convinced that your new child has super power hearing and the punishment of finding out that you are talking about her is too great to even consider.

She’s sleep deprived, teary and just deep, deep in the throes of a new child figuring out how to function in her new surroundings with the rudimentary skills she has.

We talked for an hour, about all kinds of stuff. I pulled out my best parenting swagger guidance. I pep rallied. I encouraged her to adopt my devious/creative parenting philosophies. #getgullywithit

I admitted that nearly 18 months after placement I wasn’t white knuckling it this week. I had actually dropped off the face of the cliff.

Admitting it was liberating for me, even if it is an uneasy admission that all’s not well in the kingdom. Time heals; it really does. But this ish is really hard. Teen issues are hard. Adoption issues are hard. These jokers together, overlapped and conflating is sheer madness.

But, I’m not hiding in my shower anymore. #PraisetheHolyHomeboy #wonthedoit And I know that there is life over the edge. I’ll be ok. Hope will be ok. We’ve actually survived way worse. Hell, we’ve survived nearly 18 months. Sometimes the Holy Homeboy sends you someone who mirrors your previous struggle just to remind you of how far you’ve progressed in that struggle.

This hiccup will pass. Of course it will pass with me in a hotel with luxurious bedding and room service while binge watching Vikings this weekend. I love Hope but I still need to get away from her for a few days. I think I’ll also treat myself to some new jammies, luxe of course!


Lessons Learned: Vacation Edition #3

Day 3 of our French Canadian experience had me a bit moody, which isn’t the best, but I rallied.  I know Hope hates it when my moods shift so quickly; she still hasn’t gotten used to it.  The truth is neither have I.  I’ve always been this way.  What do they call it, mercurial? Yeah, that’s me.  I did have some time to really observe us and others yesterday so and of course learn.

_________

We still have so much to learn about each other.  Hope and I have been living in the same house now for 14 months and we’re coming up on our first finalization anniversary.  And, honestly, we know each other, but we don’t know each other.  I swear it’s worse than dating!

Last night over dinner, in an effort to cheer my dreary mood, Hope suggested that we play 20 questions.

By question 3 I was cracking up at things she wanted to know: who was my crush when I was her age; what did I think my dream home would look like when I was in high school; who was my Woman Crush Wednesday back in college, before there was ever a WCW?

What brands of clothing and shoes were my favorite?  If I could be taller than 5’3” how tall would I be?

I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up if the music thing didn’t work out; what other instrument would she play besides her tenor sax; what was the hardest thing and easiest thing about moving cross country (the weather, but we have better amusement parks).  I asked her when she thought I should let her go on her first date and what was her first impression of me.  I giggled when she asked if I was white because there aren’t a lot of black women with my name; she was relieved when she was told I was Black because she didn’t want it to be obvious that she was adopted.

The “obviousness” of adoption is a running thread with us.  We were recently asked to have our images included on our agency’s redesigned website; it took us a month to decide to say yes with limitations.  We are open about our adoption on our terms; we like blending in.

When all 40 questions were asked, we agreed to do it again today.  It was fun.

Having choice and making decisions is really hard for Hope. Oy, Hope wants all the options and I’d love for her to have them, but they lock her up like a prison.  Even choosing what flavors to have in a sorbet at the ice cream shop can turn into a major life decision because there are more than 4 options.  I had fallen out of the habit of establishing guidelines before when entered a store, but realized yesterday that in this respect Hope is very much like a 5 year old.  Don’t touch things that look breakable.  You can have 2 flavors not 4.  We will be in this shop for 10 minutes.  Having the boundaries helps her.  She told me recently that she liked the boundaries a lot; she’s shocked that some other kids don’t have the same kinds of boundaries.

I guess being a strict ogre is working out for me and her.

My lessons in social justice have taken root.  Hope already had a strong sense of justice when I met her, but who got it and why weren’t quite what I had in mind.  She seemed to really believe that being Black was limiting in ways that it isn’t.  She had no problem tossing around homophobic slurs.  The justice scales weren’t exactly balanced.

We’ve been watching coverage of the foolery in Indiana this week, in which Governor Pence signed legislation that essentially legalized discrimination based on a personal religious belief.  A bunch of foolery with wider implications than being able to say no I don’t want to make a cake for your gay wedding.

After I explained what was going down in Indiana and how it might affect my friends who live there, Hope pondered.  She chewed on that thing for hours, occasionally asking a question or two to clarify.  Over dinner she declared the law stupid.

Yep, that was my conclusion too, kid.

But she went further and asked about other states, and what about our state, and what about her friends who were bisexual or lesbian or gay?  What about them?  She made the leap that some folks might not serve non-Christians and what were those people supposed to do?  She made the leap to color and what if someone said brown and black folk weren’t of God and didn’t want to serve us?

And the wheels on the bus go round and round.

Hope wants, no needs, to memorialize everything.  I’m hoping to have a chat about being happy again today with Hope. We talked about happiness recently, and I was intrigued but sad to hear my daughter talk about happiness as not sustainable because she conceptualizes happiness as episodic and not a state of mind.

The practical way this plays out is in her picture taking.  Seriously we need to plan double time for when we go somewhere because she must take pictures of EVERYTHING.  It’s crazy how many pictures she snaps, hundreds in a day.  Even crazier, she wants me to print them ALL out so she can put them in a photo album.  I’ve tried to suggest uploads to apps like Google+ Photos, but nope, she wants to print them out. Bless her, Hope is old school to her very soul; her and this picture taking and albuming is like somebody’s grandma!

I’ve come to see her snaps as a desperate way to cling to memories, to look back at the happy episode.  She still doesn’t trust this life; she says she probably will never come here again.  I don’t know if that’s true, but she still doesn’t believe that it doesn’t have to be true.  I hope to get her to that positive thinking place about her life one day.

She takes so many pictures that I hardly take any now.

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So we head back stateside tonight.  Today is lunch at the Noobox, a visit to the history museum so I can see the Greek history exhibit and a tiny bit of shopping.  Despite the exchange rate, I find Canada to be a bit pricey!


Lessons Learned: Vacation Edition #2

Day two of Montreal brought us to the absurdly confusing underground/upper ground mall situation.  We spent hours there and just went I thought it was time to shuffle somewhere else we tripped into a whole other section of the area.  All this wandering about gave me time to think of new lessons.

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I hate the word, “Oooooooh.”  No, really I hate hearing Hope go “ooooh” when she sees something because she invariably follows it with “I need this…”  Really, you need a $29 Hello Kitty wallet that will be on the floor with the mirror crushed inside of a month?  “Oooooooh” grates on my nerves like I cannot explain; it is a red herring for me.

I like shopping, and I like to take care of my things.  Hope is in a phase of life in which taking care of things from this life; as opposed to her pre-adoptive life–just doesn’t happen.  Stuff ends up on floor, broken all the time.

In recent months I’ve started working on helping her take a minute to think about the difference between need and want.  I also found it necessary to downsize her food orders because she tends to order everything and eat nothing, which triggers an emotional response from her about wastefulness.

I heard “oooooooh” a lot yesterday and I am now really aware that everytime I hear it, I cringe a little bit inside.

Size matters.  Hope is very tall, statuesque, even.  In the face she still looks pretty young, but in this busy world, who really pays attention?  It is shocking to me how adults are rude to each other because we can be.  I am guilty of this sometimes; at times I’m in a hurry or just want what I want and I might get snappy.

Observing Hope yesterday interact with clerks in shops let me know that she is subjected to a bunch of adult pettiness on the regular because it takes folks a minute to really look at her and realize she’s just a kid.  Oy!

Hope is practicing her French while on this trip (amazing how it’s coming along!).  A lot of practicing is just in building the confidence to ask questions; Hope has so little confidence.  In one shop she started to ask a question and she stumbled a little bit.  The clerk sniffed, rolled her eyes and grunted, “I speak English.” Hope grimaced and physically stepped back.

I stepped forward and tersely stated that my daughter was attempting to practice, might she show just a wee bit of patience with her?

I saw the light bulb go on.

The conversation proceeded in French, haltingly, but in the end I congratulated Hope on trying again and nodded my thanks to the formerly shady clerk.

I realized that Hope probably gets some form of these size based assumptions on the regular and that makes me kind of sad.

Vacation sleep is a beautiful thing, when you can get it.  Last night we got take out and I let Hope watch something dumb while I caught up on magazines from last month.  I eventually just fell asleep.  I need want 6 pillows and nice bedding back home.  I slept so wonderfully.

Zzzzzz.

Of course the fact that my fitbit says I walked nearly 18K steps yesterday probably has something to do with my sound sleep. Fitbit says I had 100% sleep efficiency last night; apparently I only rolled over once.

I still have so much to learn about teen communication. Yesterday over croissants, cocoa and a latte, Hope opened up about being lonely at school.  I’ve fretted quite a bit about her social skills the last year.  She does act a bit young for her age, has some issues with anger and just struggles with friendships.

So, I listened to her open up about being lonely on the boyfriend front.

Having these conversations is kind of like having the best cup of coffee and then putting your hand directly on the red eye of the stove with no Ove-Glove.  They don’t end well.

I love it when she opens up to me. Love it.  But it’s tricky and I feel vulnerable.  One wrong move can trigger sighing and protestations of “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND AT ALL.”

Yesterday I initially started with trying to parse out whether she was lonely because she wanted a boyfriend or was she lonely because she felt left out because “everyone else” (which really could be only one person) has one and she didn’t.  This brought me a few minutes of an explanation that leaned more to the latter then to the former.

I asked what does a 13 year old’s relationship look like?  I had to ask because from my vantage point so far, it appeared to be a lot of texting with emoticons, followed by crying and gnashing of teeth. I was happy to hear that boys still walk their SO’s to class and sometimes carry their books was a visual indicator of being coupled up.

Hope asked me about Elihu, which as a pretty big deal that must’ve shook me a bit since I wasn’t expecting it and while she knows he exists and has seen him, I don’t really talk about him. Then I realized me and E were included in her tally of “EVERYONE has someone EXCEPT ME.”

For reals?

Yeah, Hope is sitting in this cafe looking at me, thinking, “Even my mamma got somebody.”

Well dangit.

I steered things back and shared that my love life at 13 was similar to hers, and in fact most girls would say that it was similar.  Things aren’t always what they seemed.

Whelp, that was the end of that.  “No mom, they are.  You don’t know, you don’t know anything, just never mind.”

With my now 3rd degree burned hand, I went back to my coffee and croissant, and we didn’t speak for nearly an hour.

Sharing is caring.  I stay in touch with Hope’s extended first family.  I send them letters and pictures with some regularity.  I do tend to keep them locked out of social media stuff; not that I pust much stuff about Hope on my personal page, but like any parent I do.  Given how things all went down for us on Facebook, I still am leery about sharing too much there.  I’ve posted a photogrid each day we’ve been here, and it is heartwarming to open it up so they can see our adventures.  One aunt left the sweetest message yesterday.

It felt good to lift the veil.

Hope is still not ready to have her own contact but is so appreciative of my efforts to keep that door open and to keep her family somewhere in our world.  I’m hopeful that one day we’ll get there and that there will be some positive, healthy relationship amongst us all.  But for now, it’s amazing how lifting a privacy setting on FB can mean so much to people.

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Today is museums and a promised horse and carriage ride, maybe a nice dinner too.

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Sibling Rivalry

Ahhh, so the reality is that I have two kids.  One kid has two legs, is taller than me, speaks English and is sliding deep into the drama that is teen years.  The other kid has four legs, weighs about 7lbs, is just under 6 months old and is deep into the throws of puppydom.

And these two…oh these two!

Yappy is a puppy; he does puppy stuff.  In the last week he has chewed through 3 cords (electrical tape is sooooo important in Casa d’ABM), shredded a new roll of toilet paper and created a full on lair under my bed. He is maniacal in his endless puppy enthusiasm.  I relish in coming home to Yappy because when I walk through the door, he acts like I hung the sun and the moon, and I am the best thing that has happened to him…ever! And his cuddles.  Sigh! I loves me some Yappy.

I loves me some Hope too, of course.  Hope has recently decided that she is not checking for Yappy though.  He’s cute (adorbs!) when he wants to play, but when he chews on things she has left out…well, he is enemy number one.

Today she managed to spill a bunch of Mike and Ikes on the floor.  Yappy thought God sent manna from doggy-heaven and ran to gobble what he could before being scolded.

I found some…um…some of Hope’s unmentionables in Yappy’s lair recently, a reminder that Hope needs to  deep clean and scrub tidy her room.

Yappy destroyed all the aces in Hope’s new deck of cards that she left on the living room floor.  Not sure how he did that but he was proud of himself (frankly so was I); Hope was furious!

And to top it off, he loves me more.  Heck I feed him, train him, snuggle with him and take him for long walks.  Yappy runs to me for EVERYTHING. And I love it.  It’s unfortunate that Hope’s impatience means that Yappy’s attachment to me exclusively will only grow over time, but selfishly, I’m about that puppy adoration life.  Hope and I can get rather frosty sometimes.  Yappy never gives me the cold shoulder.

Elihu says I’m more patient with Yappy than I am with Hope.  Honestly, he’s probably right.  I totally understand what puppies do and why they do it. I don’t understand this teen thing at all.  Not one bit. Totally foreign and infuriating sometimes.

I’m hoping that in time Hope will come around to understanding that this is life with a puppy.  Puppy proofing is necessary, as is good consistent correction.  That good, consistent love and correction is good for both my fur baby and my teen, equally.

But for now, the daily sibling squabbles continue–only Yappy doesn’t realize that he and Hope are squabbling.

 


Doing This

At least once a day I sit around and wonder, “What the heck am I doing?”  OK, really, there’s usually some sort of full on expletive in place of “heck,” but I digress.

Because Hope and I often surf from one crisis to another, the mundane often feels so elusive to us.  You know, I try to maintain key daily routines but still I’m often wondering is this crisis thing just our normal?

For how long?

Forever? #Outkast

outkast

When the crises cease, will Hope and I even know how to go forward without a bunch of drama? Who knows.

In the meantime, what’s this mom to do? #sigh

We are paddling on a log wave crisis right now, and we’re in the midst of a short lull.  It’s allowed me to focus on just trying to maintain a safe, loving place for us–her and me.  I don’t feel like I get to intentionally focus on that much with everything always on DEFCON 1. This past week was a close to normal as I feel like we’re going to get for the foreseeable future.

And I probably didn’t do anything special but try a little harder to just practice chillin’.

I listened.  We are deep, deep  I say, into the first love around here.  Ugh. It. Is. Torture.  And I’d like to put this little punk under the wheel of my car and make him into a Lifetime Movie that doesn’t end well for him.  I’ve given consistent messaging about self-worth and self-respect, but mostly I’ve shut my pie-hole and listened.

Holy Homeboy I’m tired of hearing about this boy and his shenanigans. Tie-erd, I say.  But the more I stayed silent, the more Hope talked about her emotional struggles with the epicness of the heart crushing first love.  I wish she could articulate like this about her other struggles.  But Hope talked and talked.  And she was happy to talk.  And I managed to be some kind of lamp post on her raggedy road to middle school love.

Side Note: Boyfriend betta be glad that Elihu lurks with a level head…he’s mad protective, but bless him, he prays on the regular to keep a level head. I however, do not, subscribe to such discipline, which is why I will be at the school recklessly eyeballing this punk during band class this week.

I helped her cook.  She got some new cookbooks for Christmas, so Hope chose a dinner menu; I bought the necessary ingredients. I played sous chef as she attempted to make her first potato soup, and I helped her fix it when the recipe revealed itself to not provide the best outcome (milk soup with potato lumps?).  We avoided a kitchen meltdown, learned about improvisation, and had a lovely dinner with good chatter (see me listening above).

I did her hair. Hope has mostly wanted to wear her hair in twists this last year.  She wants her hair to grow long, really long.

willow-hair

Recently she asked me to take down her twists, blow her hair out and flat iron it.

And I did.

On my birthday. #dammit

It took 4+ agonizing hours.

Did I mention this was on *my* birthday?

My feet hurt, my legs hurt, I hurt.

But she was thrilled with her long, bouncy hair.  Nevermind that her hair needs to be trimmed and shaped.  Nevermind that she was serving first lady of Greater Mt. Zion-Calvary-Horeb/United/AME/Pentecostal/COGIC/Baptist/High Baptist (with gloves on the ushers)/Potter’s House/Temple with Rev. Dr. Bishop Jerome presiding realness; all she needed was a church hat and a doily to toss across her knees. #lawdhafmercy

churchlady

She was so happy. Absurdly happy.  Some kid at school told her she looked like a Black Marilyn Monroe. #idiedlaughing

And I’ll do it all again this week.  Fun times (#sideeye); I’m taking some ibuprofen this time and putting that round brush to work.  #beenwatchingdominicanyoutubevideos

Next week is back to curly twist outs.

I cut her some slack. I gave her some space.  I let her be sad.  I gently reminded her of her chores.  When wacky stuff turned up on the random cell phone check, I didn’t flip out. I gave her lots of hugs.  I just thought about all the stuff she’s got floating around in her head, and I cut her some slack.

And we’re better for it.

Parenting isn’t easy, and despite what some folks say, not every day is the best day of your life.  #realtalk There are some really crappy days along the way. But we’re doing this.  Day by day, step by step.

We’re doing this.


Big Fun

Hope recently asked me, in her most exasperated, working on getting it perfect, teen tone: “Mom, ugh…..how did you ever get through being a teenager? It’s sooooooooo hard. It’s so confusing, all these emotions, I just can’t.”

I waited for her to throw herself to the floor and writhe around as that seemed to be the next logical step in this drama-filled confab we were having. She didn’t, and for that I am grateful.

“Yeah, sweetie, I dunno. It’s hard. I guess I muddled through…just like you will muddle through. No one gets a pass on the horror that is the teen years.”

Hope had just spent the last #ikidyounot 2+ hours telling me blow-by-blow about a conversation she had with her crush after school the previous day. You know that time that she left the after school program because the crush said it was ok, and that he could sneak her back into school, and no one would be the wiser, but that’s not what happened, and I found her on the side of the road freezing to death alone when I picked her up?

#recordscratch

#recordscratch

This kid is going to be the death of me. It’s a wonder I even saw her!

I didn’t even yell at her at the time; I couldn’t. I mean…I was so stunned that I found her on the ROADSIDE, with no damn coat on in 30 degree weather. I didn’t even ask her the whole story at the time. I was just so glad Hope was ok, and I was busy blasting the heat so that she didn’t continue to freeze to death ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. #lawd #ranmypressureup

So yesterday we spent a relaxed evening with her telling me the whole story of how she ended up on the side of the road.

Honestly if it wasn’t so dang absurd and scary, it would be hysterical. The things we do for a crush…smh! As she spilled the tea, I found myself shaking my head.

oprah-smh-o

Hope would respond, “Yeah, mom, I know. It was dumb. I was really dumb.”

And I still couldn’t yell at her. Lord knows I wanted to raise hell, but I couldn’t because I started remembering the time my dad came to fetch me from a location where I KNEW I wasn’t supposed to be, doing something I KNEW was stupid. I remember the fresh hell I felt waiting for him to yell at me, waiting for the inevitable punishment, waiting to be in so much trouble. Oh I got in trouble. I remember losing my TV and being grounded for a long time, but I don’t remember a lot of yelling. I’ve probably just blocked it out, because I’m sure there was some yelling. But I remember the punishment, and more so, I remembered the self-conviction I felt because I knew I was in the wrong, so, so very wrong. I don’t even know if I really hung out with those kids, who I followed in my dumb moment of peer pressure, ever again. I remember the gravity of letting my parents down and just doing something so absurdly dumb and how it made me feel.

I could tell Hope was feeling pretty low. With every, “And then he said…. And then I said….and then we went so and so and then person X stopped to take a selfie…,” I knew how she felt about her shady shenanigans. I also kinda wanted to stab myself with a fork because the conversation pattern was annoying as all get out. #totally #literally

So, I decided to show her how I felt. As she was still prattling on, I pulled up a clip of Claire Huxtable GOING THE HELL OFF on Vanessa in the episode called The Night of the Wretched. I told Hope to hush and that this was what I was feeling right now, but that I would not yell at her. She could feel free to imagine Claire yelling at her for having Big Fun with her crush while wandering around the neighborhood two miles away from home.

She laughed and afterward said she got it. I took over the conversation by asking what I really wanted to know—specifically what happened (in 90 seconds or less) and how she now felt about her crush and his shenanigans.

I’m glad I could take some time to breathe, to remember how hard it is being Hope’s age, to remember what it was like getting caught doing stupid ish.  I’m glad that for once I could practice a little grace with her. I’m glad that she can talk to me and tell me what’s going on, even if it takes forever to tell the story. I’m glad we are learning not to blow up.

I’m counting this as my first parenting win for 2015.


Growth Spurts

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.

_____________

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.

_____________

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.


The Package

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.


K E Garland

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