Tag Archives: life changes

I Used to be an ESTJ

Since I’ve been home recovering from my head injury, Hope and I have had a chance to spend some time together. Oddly, we haven’t gotten on each other’s nerves too much. We’ve enjoyed resting and lounging; of course, this is what Hope has been doing all summer, but I digress. I have a great kid.

Last week we threw on some sweats and hit the neighborhood IHOP while the housekeepers got the house together (how is it that I feel like I’m intruding in my own house when they are there???). Over pancakes and bacon, Hope and I got to talking about personality types. Hope mentioned that they did a Myers-Briggs test in school last year. Intrigued, I inquired what letters she got. Of course, my daughter and her short attention span and poor memory couldn’t remember.

Curious I did a quick Google search on my phone and pulled up a test for her to take over breakfast. She read the questions, occasionally asking me to clarify the questions for her. I mused over her answers, thinking for at least half of them that I wouldn’t answer the way she did based on how I observed how she moved through the world. She turned out to be an I/ESTP. She presents differently to me.

Um, way, way, way, way, way, way differently to me, but um, ok…if that’s how she sees herself.

I definitely pegged the Introvert/Extrovert borderline, but the rest of it was like no, these descriptions don’t describe my kid at all. I am intrigued by the way Hope sees herself. While I’m not totally going to change my parenting style based on a free version of the Myers-Briggs I found on the internet over breakfast, it does make me think about trying to see Hope as she sees herself.

Artistic, independent, adaptable, practical, self-directed and energetic. This sounds like a great kid too. I hope that one day everyone can see her this way, including and especially me.

After reading her results and chatting about them, I reset the test and started taking it myself. I know that we can change over time. I have been an ESTJ (Extroverted, Sensing, Thinking, Judging) for as long as I can remember, and none of these indicators were even close to the borderlines all the previous times I’ve taken the test—both formally and informally. I hadn’t taken one of these tests since I became a mom, so, since we were chatting about our personalities, I jumped on the test train.

Low and behold, I have changed. The only thing that stayed the say was my tendency for extroversion. Every other indicator was firmly hugging the borderline. Apparently, I have become more Intuitive, more Feeling, and more Perceiving since I became a mom. Who is *this* chick???

I guess that’s a good thing, right? As I told Hope, none of these letters are particularly good or bad; they just are.

Still, I am fascinated by the changes. I suppose motherhood required me to develop and flex these aspects of my personality. I’d like to think that I’m more forward thinking as I dream about Hope’s future, and I certainly have added consideration of feelings along with my data in decision-making. I’ve had to let some of my judginess go and be more flexible and adaptable in this phase of my life.

So, I guess it all makes sense, but much like I thought I saw differently than she sees herself, what I thought I knew about myself turns out to be different than the possible reality.

It’s odd because there was some pride I’d long taken in being an ESTJ. I don’t know why; maybe it was how definitive the scoring suggested these letters represented me. As I mentioned earlier, I know that personalities can change over time, but um, that was *other* people…not me. Is it odd that my initial reaction was feeling a little grief and loss—I mean, here was another indicator of how motherhood has changed me and even though I traded in my cute Mini Cooper 18 months ago in favor of a “family” car, I’m still not-so-secretly mad about that. Did I really have to “lose” my STJ too?

I’m mildly comforted by the fact that my scores at least hug the borderline; maybe I’m still an ESTJ at work and just different at home.

Of course, I am glad that my personality has shifted to meet the need I have in my life now. Hope certainly benefits from me being less rules-oriented (Oh, we have rules though) and more emotionally in tune with things.

So here we are; Hope sees herself as radically different than I see her, and I have changed from the me I used to know.

This isn’t bad, but I can’t help pondering these pieces of information well past the bacon and pancakes. It’s interesting and I wonder what new surprises about our personalities will reveal in time.

Has your personality changed since becoming a parent?


New Skin

After spending all of 2016 trying to orchestrate Hope’s success, I slid into December exhausted and frustrated. My daughter was frustrated and exhausted. Our relationship felt no better than it did at the beginning of the year.

I feel like I threw out everything I knew and just said, “Eff it. How bad would it be if I just stopped?”

I wrote about that transition.

Here we are nearly 8 weeks later and a calm has fallen over our home. With the exception of the ongoing chatter about all things Kpop, Hope and I seem content, actually happy.

She’s a delight to be around most of the time.

I’m not angry much, so I’m guessing I’m easier to be around too.

We spend time together in the evenings and chat about all kinds of things including politics.

We started planning a grand trip abroad for spring break, and then she asked me if we could go visit family instead.

For three years, I have been trying to help her to build her confidence to ask for what she wants and needs—she’s doing that now.

Some of her trauma-related behaviors are well controlled. We have slid into a period of just regular 1st world teen problems. And you know what? That’s awesome! We’re both closer to normal, delightfully normal.

One day last week, she loaded the dishwasher and tidied the kitchen completely on her own. I was initially suspicious about this, but she said she knew I was tired and it wasn’t a big deal.

I give her a list of a few things to do, and for the most part they get done.

I was chatting with a neighbor this weekend and I just said so proudly, Hope is such a good kid.

I mean, I knew that she was of course, but it’s like she’s sloughed off some of that hurt and that anger.  She still hurts; she’s still angry, she’s still fearful, and sometimes she’s still stuck in the past. But it’s so much less than it was even 3 months ago.

It’s not just that she’s healing. It’s like when you’ve had that big injury and the scab falls off and you know that you’re on the other side of the mountain of healing. You’ve got a ways to go, but you know it’s going to be ok. I can see Hope’s new skin after some of the scabs I’ve nursed for 3 years have finally fallen off. That new “skin” is bright, soft and supple. It’s regaining its color too. She’s going to be ok.

As a parent to a kid who’s experienced so much trauma, I feel like I can breathe again.

It’s like a big inhale, and a lovely 8 count exhale.

I think she’s breathing easier too.

When your kid reaches that turning point in healing, it’s like a bit of freedom for both of you. I feel like maybe I can trust her more now not to freak out over innocuous things. Even her severe fear of bugs is easily managed now (which is great since I no longer fear being pushed out of the car).

I feel like she can trust me more too. She finally is comfortable enough to ask me to order her something or ask to go hang out with friends. She didn’t use to do that. Those are tangible things happening that tell me the trust is real.

The most amazing thing about where we are right now is that since the ongoing crises are over, we have time to really look to the future. Hope is beginning to seriously think about her future now. We’re exploring how she will define what success looks and feels like for her. We’re looking at her post high school options. These are such extraordinary things. It’s not that I didn’t think they would ever happen; it’s that I had no idea when they would.

Last week, she announced that maybe she might want to be a translator one day. She said she might want to move and live in a foreign country at some point to immerse herself in the language. She thought I might be sad.

I was thrilled. My daughter has gone from no dreams to big dreams.

I told her that I will make sure I keep my vacation savings account flush so that I can afford to see visit her and have her show me around.

Saying that it would be a dream come true for her to step into that kind of reality is an understatement.

It’s great when other people tell me that I’m a good mom. It feels weird though when people assume I’m a good mom because I “saved” Hope or that I get a pair of angel wings just because I adopted an adolescent. I politely rebuff those kind sentiments because I know that I just wanted to be a mom, and Hope just needed one and somehow the universe smushed us together.

But sitting down and taking a moment to reflect on where we’ve been and where we are now, well, that makes me feel like I’m getting it mostly right. It builds my own confidence in my parenting. I’m hardly an expert, and I’m certain I’ve probably gotten more wrong than right on many, many, many days. But I love my daughter, and I’ve done everything I can to help her heal, tried to use whatever privilege I have to shield her from harm in any way necessary, and loved her with my whole heart.

Who knew? That recipe seems to work! So, I’ll keep doing what I’m doing. I look forward to continuing this path and helping Hope blossom into whomever and whatever it is that she will become.


The Height of Frustration

I procrastinate.

In fact, I am procrastinating right now.

There are meal plans to execute, and I am sitting on the couch. I would rather write and emotionally work through my latest kerfuffle with Hope (which happens to be ongoing on text at the moment), than fix the marinate for those chicken thighs that have been defrosting this afternoon.

I procrastinate.

Hope? Hope does not procrastinate.

After some google searches ala “why does my child take 5 hours to accomplish three tasks that should take no more than 3 hours max?” I turned up on the term time blindness.

Apparently time blindness is when you think you can manage time, but you totally, totally can’t. Not only can you not manage time, it’s almost like clocks don’t work for you at all. You need stimuli to remind you want you need to do next.

You think you’re just going to spend 15 minutes on this task, but somehow 2 hours have gone by while you went down a KPop YouTube rabbit hole.

Just going to run in an change clothes really quick? And 4 hours later…

It’s not that it happens once in a blue moon; it’s that it happens all the time. It’s persistent.


It is beyond frustrating. It is hard to get anything done in this house when it takes Hope 30 minutes to make her bed.

I’m constantly working with her to actually care about time. I am also feeling backed into a corner with being really restrictive and limiting stimuli to help her stay focused.

Naturally restrictions don’t go over well; and with a side of melodrama you would think I don’t let her do anything.

This leaves me feeling icky. I know she’s got a lot going on in that brain of hers. There are big emotions, dark thoughts, and tangled neurons.

I also know that all of that puts her at greater risk for so many things that could further devastate her.

I often wonder if I’m just piling on to the myriad of drama we experience.

I am constantly researching interventions. I’ve got a couple that are core to my being able to survive this. Hope buys into none of the interventions. And it’s beginning to dawn on me that the consequences don’t mean much to her. I mean, yes she will suffer, but when her depression and anxiety are already high and her self-esteem is already low, then what really does she have to lose but to actually embody all of the bad things she thinks about herself?

So what exactly am I doing and is there a way out of this?

I’ve come to accept that straight A’s aren’t in our future and that my beloved daughter needs some additional support. The goal is getting her to a place where she can launch into a future life that will be good for her and to her…a life where she can be self-sufficient and live the life she wants to live.

I want that for her.

But if I’m being totally honest, I want that for me.

There is a lot of emotion for me around whether and when Hope will launch into a self-sufficient adult.  I know it won’t be after high school. I know that it may or may not be right after college…if she goes to college. With every life skill that is missing or developing or is behind in develop, my own anxiety ratchets up.

I’m ashamed that this sounds like I just can’t wait for her to be off into the world. It’s so much more complicated than that. I know that I still want more for my daughter than she wants for herself and after these years together, I still have trouble wrapping my head around that. The regressions are exhausting and I wish they would end, but I know they won’t anytime soon.

I also worry about how all of my worry and fretfulness affects our relationship. I can’t say I feel like we’re in the best place right now. I can’t say that she feels like I’m the safest person in her life right now. I mean, she knows I’m ride or die on the “big stuff” but this is really just daily life stuff. I can’t say I’m the most patient or empathetic. I can’t say I’m doing any of this right to meet her most urgent needs.

I’m also starting to realize that her most urgent need is simply to lay off and just be with her…to just catch her when she stumbles instead of trying so desperately to remove all of the barriers. I think she just wants me to love her, and this feels like conditional love, like all I’m trying to do is fix a broken daughter. And that breaks my heart.

I want her to be successful, but I haven’t given a lot of thought about what Hope’s definition of success is. Maybe for now…this is it. Just getting up everyday, going to school, trying, coming home, having dinner, petting the dog and mustering the energy to do it tomorrow.

If this is true, then a lot of my frustration is of my own making. I mean, don’t get me wrong, that 5 hours ish is still frustrating as hell, but it’s just symptomatic of much larger emotional sludge we’re covered in. So maybe the appropriate response is to just love on her and step away from the interventions and just let nature happen, whatever happens, just let her be loved. Our respective levels of frustrations need a break—surely my cortisol levels have made me have more than one food baby.

Maybe I’ll just go back to love as being the only intervention. I mean, things can get worse, but maybe this way we can at least be more secure as a mom/daughter unit if things do get worse. I’m tired of being frustrated. I’m ready to take a break.

Never Have I Ever…

Needed to vacuum at 7:30am before becoming a mother.

Wanted band seasons to end so badly.

Been so excited that Hope wants to go *away* to band camp next summer—several band camps actually.

Thought I would restrict Hope’s primary cereal choices to Kellogg’s Special K with Red Berries or Raisin Brand Crunch.

Thought I’d make Yoda so proud with Jedi mind tricks, by my mind game is #strong.

Needed a grown up vacation so bad.

Wanted or needed to figure out how to cultivate new friendships with a bunch of cliquish band parents.

Thought finding Flavor-Ice plastics all over the house would annoy me so very much.

Thought I would deal with hoarding.

Thought I’d sleep with a dog under the covers again after The Furry One, but then there was #Yappy.

See diversity issues through new eyes as an adoptive parent.

Faced the idea of having a primary focus on social development rather than academic performance.

Read so many journal articles on parenting children of trauma.

Thought I’d be so dang tired.

Contemplated the convergence of my many identities—Black, woman, sliding in to middle age, educated, single mom, adoptive parent, professional.

Missed so many deadlines.

Gone this long without reading a book for pleasure.

Drank so much wine.

Spent so much time looking for good wines with screw tops because I simply can’t be bothered with finding the corkscrew.

Been told my blood pressure is elevating.

Bought *this size* clothing.

Worked so hard outside of work.

Tried so hard to find time for self-care.

Been so frustrated that I can come home from a day and a half business trip to find a sink full of dirty dishes spilling on to the counters and stove, a dog with a less than clean bottom, the new bottle of juice empty, a strange pile of tooth picks on the coffee table, dog chewed glue sticks on the floor, Chinese takeout condiment packets all over the kitchen, dining room and coffee table and a dog who seemed extraordinarily happy that I was home just before midnight.

Actually paid a nanny—one of our best nannies—for the previously described welcome home without being really pissed.

Thought I’d take my teenage daughter’s narcissism so personally.

Thought I’d have the wonderful relationship with my boo, Elihu, that I do as a single parent.

Believed that I had the capacity to grind out this life like I do.

Believed that I could love like I do.

Believed that I could be as angry as I get sometimes.

Believed that my life could be full of so many decisions where there were no apparent upsides, just rocks and hard places.

Learned so much about invisible disabilities.

Had so many epiphanies about life.

Realized just how privileged I was growing up.

Realized just how much I took for granted before adopting Hope.

Had to sneak away to buy things for myself.

Had to carefully curate my online persona like I do now.

Been so frustrated about racism and sexism as I am now that I have a daughter—I was always frustrated but on a scale of 1-10, I’m now on 50.

Been so annoyed by how teen magazines spend so much time coaching girls about how to get a boyfriend/love interest.

Spent so much time trying to figure out how blended/complicated family structures can thrive.

Wanted so much out of life for someone else the way that I do for Hope.

Spent so much time thinking about what the second half of my life will look like.

Spent so much time thinking about how Hope will shape what the second half of my life will be like-who will she evolve into? What will she choose to do academically? Professionally? Where will she live? Will I be a grandmother? Will I ever breakdown and start shopping at Chico’s because I associate it with grandmotherhood?

Considered thinking about the need to move from my beloved condo like I do now.

Daydreamed about what living in a larger space with a yard would be like before now.

Spent so much time thinking about my personal politics and how adoption from foster care and motherhood have shaped them.

Spent so much time thinking about my own religious beliefs and needs before feeling rejected by my former church.

Felt *this* frustrated trying to figure out what kind of house of worship will be the best fit for me and Hope.

Questioned organized religion as much as I do now after being told that Hope and I don’t fit the “motif” of a cute family seeking a public dedication to the Holy Homeboy.

Never have I ever felt like my body betrayed me like I did when I realized I would never birth a biological child.

Confessed just how deeply that revelation hurt me because there are simply no words that can describe it.

Believed that life was fair.

Believed that we all get the same, equitable shot at the life we really desire—some of us have to work doubly, infinitely harder to get there.

Believed that a good fight wasn’t worth it.

Envisioned that this would be the life that I would have.

Been disappointed with it in total—there are some episodes I would change, but it’s all pretty good when viewed holistically, I guess.

Not been thankful for what I have, what I pursue, what I have achieved.

Not acknowledged the folks who have pushed me along, even if their pushes have been painful or served motivation to simply prove them wrong.

Not been grateful for my haters. #theyseemerolling #theyhatin’

Not been without flaws.

Not done my absolute best, sometimes to my own detriment.

Not been brutally real.

Not been authentic.

Not been just me.

Your turn…sound off.

Leaning In

I just spent a couple of days being wined and dined. It’s nice to be recruited. It’s absurdly flattering. It’s also confidence building to know that my work speaks for me. It was a great trip.

I can honestly say that I could see myself living in that area and doing the work.

I can also say that I immensely enjoy what I’m doing in my current job.

I learned a lot about other people’s vision for me, what I would be doing, and how I would be doing it. I found myself thinking, ”Well, some of these are interesting challenges; I could do some cool things here with this team.”

Someone talked to me about an ultimate career goals, and I realized that although I previously thought the trajectory she described was where I wanted to end up, maybe I really didn’t want to do that after all.

That realization, alone, made the trip worth it.

During the last few months of this professional flirtation, I never once doubted my ability to do the work or to be successful in the role being offered to me. My biggest professional questions were always did I want to do it, and would it position me to do things I wanted to do later in my career.

Some months ago, Mimi and I mentioned the book, Lean In, on Add Water and Stir. I grimaced when she mentioned it, and I recall Mimi asking why. We didn’t really go into it on the show, but I remember thinking that I have always felt like I was leaning in. I pushed boundaries; I created stuff; I might lack confidence, but you’d never know it (#neverletthemseeyousweat); I had goals and I would meet them if it killed me. I didn’t think that book was written for me.  #nope #notforme

Personally, adopting Hope was the epic lean in for me. It’s totally changed my life, of course. It has made me behave differently professionally, recognizing my need and desire to slow down a bit as a mom and especially as a single mom. My priorities shifted. And while I’ve still been really productive and taken on new challenges, I simply haven’t revolved my life around my job like I used to. And I’m good with that. I’ve taken some time to lean in on parenting Hope and shepherding her into adulthood.

So, now, here is an opportunity to take on a new challenge: uprooting my kiddo and moving her…again.

The challenge isn’t the job, I can do that job in my sleep. The challenge is the life logistics of what’s best for Hope.

To my professional flirt’s credit, they appreciate my concerns, but they also don’t truly get it. I got school tours, meetings with the principal of the “preferred” school in the district (I could and should write a whole blog about that “preferred school” thing). We talked about how fabulous the music programs were at the school and throughout the state, and how Hope might musically thrive in that environment. Folks had been briefed about our situation and genuinely offered suggestions on how to make it work.

In all though, only one person really appreciated the fact that I would need a ton of referrals to create a new medical support network for my daughter and, the referral of the great team notwithstanding; I wouldn’t have any additional support in the area. Even this one person simply said, “Oh Hope will adapt, the start of high school is a great time to pick up and move.”

Sure I think she would adapt, but Hope’s had to do so much adapting because of the adults in her life during her 14 years. Maybe for once, someone should make a decision that doesn’t involve her having to be the one to adapt.

That seems reasonable right?

In the end, I don’t see this opportunity as attractive enough to put my career above leaning in on Hope’s needs. I mean, I guess for a crazy amount of money perhaps, but crazy money isn’t in play here (though the offer is generous). Hope needs me; she needs stability, she needs the opportunity to fulfill some goals she has at her new school here. Hope has hope, right now, that we are home, that she can count on our routine, that she can continue to work on the social relationships she has here, that she can have access to her entire family—adoptive and birth—within a few hours drive. She needs roots. And we’re growing them.

And while I know that there have been a lot of people who’ve cared for her along the way, my sweet girl has been shuttled about nearly all of her life. For once can she just breathe easy that she doesn’t have to go anywhere for a while longer. #canHopelive?

My career is going fine. It’s nice to know I’m a prize. I am so very fortunate to be so happy doing what I’m doing, where I’m doing it. But I am making a choice to continue leaning in on mommyhood for a while longer. Hope needs to be able to lean on me.

Grabbing Happy

This week was a good week for us.  Despite a few run ins that upon reflection seem more normal than not, I think we had a good week.  We had fun.  We laughed.  We did high school orientation.  We managed Yappy, who has managed to break out of every containment system I have dreamt up for him; he’s a little Houdini.  We’ve had a good week.

So I wasn’t ready for yesterday, which was my own fault.

Hope said how depressed she was, how things seemed despairing, how having hope and a positive outlook was not a useful endeavor because happiness was fleeting. Hope is happy to have been adopted, and she loves me and our little family, but this is probably the last great thing that will happen to her and it’s already happened.  The adoption is in the past and now we’re just living, so the happy event passed and while it created a permanent situation, the happy surrounding it is not sustainable and in fact, it also has passed.

And just like that I was forced to pick apart the real meaning of happiness.  I mean, I had to think about what it meant to me and what I want it to mean for Hope.

I have to regularly sit down, take a moment and consider my own happiness. Am I happy?  Some hours of each day I am happy.  Some days of each month I am happy.  Some months of each year I am happy, and some years in each decade I am happy.

I would like to think I am more happy than not.

I do take a few breaths these days and ask am I happy.  I have just about everything I ever thought I wanted.  I have nice list of accomplishments professionally and academically.  I have great friends and family.  I am a mom.  I have someone in my life who loves me and whom I love very much.  I’m comfortable, even with the challenges.  Yeah, I’m happy.

But you know when you’re slugging through heavy stuff, you know during the thick of it, it’s easy to say you’re not happy and you maybe really aren’t happy.  And with good reason.

But you still tend to have hope that happy comes back right?

Apparently Hope doesn’t have hope that happy comes back.

To hear her tell it, she has tried that brand of hope and “maybe next time it will be different,” but for so many next times it wasn’t different.  Bad things happened and more bad things followed. Imagining it sounds so spirit crushing to know that there is no faith there.  I’m not even talking about churchy faith, but just faith that there’s something different out there.

It’s also hard hearing that having permanence hasn’t challenged that thinking at all.  More good things than bad things have happened in the last year.  But there’s 12 years of crap to contend with; 12 years of data that show it doesn’t pay to have hope that happy will show up.

It’s going to take a long, long time to help her learn to create happy.  I tried to explain that considering happy as things always go well, that you always get your way or whatever you want will not get you there.  It’s the collection of experiences, memories, and the value that you assign them in the grand scheme of things that help you reframe and refocus on happy.  It’s not easy to learn that.

I am afraid that I will fail to teach her, but I can’t imagine a life without hope that happy is within striking distance.

Despite the fear of failure, I see her setting goals.  I see her caring.  I see her enjoying things.  I know that happy is right there if she chooses to see it and chooses to grab it.

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


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.


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


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.

Merry Meltdown-a-mas

We are in the thick of the holiday season, and other than desiring to ability to see some family, sleep late and nap with Yappy, I really wish I could hit the fast forward button. Christmas shopping went out of control since I had to buy a new HVAC unit, and Hope wanted everyone in her new family to have some kind of present. I’m dangerously close to just writing checks and putting them in boring security mailing envelopes or finding myself as one of those sad people still shopping at the 24-hour Walgreen’s on Christmas Day.

Clearly the holidays bring about unique stressors like spending cash, spending a LOT of time with other people, year-end reflection and just stuff. Add to the mix a new daughter who misses some of her first family and is reflecting on the massive changes she’s endured during the last year, and it’s just one wave of a meltdown after another. This season seems to be tough for both of us.

Adding to our drama was the recent resurfacing of a legal case against someone who was really ishtty to Hope several years ago. Oh, yeah, that was fun and no doubt shaved a few more years off of my life. #sarcasm Nothing like waking up one afternoon and realizing that you might’ve seen your life on a previous episode of Law & Order.

We’ve been so stressed out that Hope, and I were about ready to claw each other’s eyes out ahead of family therapy last week. Fortunately, Absurdly Hot Therapist is really, really good at what he does. We were both able to acknowledge just how overwhelmed we are; how we aren’t as far along as we each thought and some stuff that we both need to do differently.

(As one of the few bright side giggles lately: Hope has recently become fixated on commenting on how big Absurdly Hot Therapist’s feet are. Every time, I can barely stifle my gleeful giggles, because you know, I’m totally inappropriate. He has big hands too….just sayin. #dontjudgeme)

Today marks the first day of winter break, which means two crazy glorious weeks together. Yay or nah?

Don’t get me wrong, I love spending time with Hope. Love it!

I’m getting really good at listing to “These are the Days of Our Lives: Middle School Edition.” My patience is growing, though it still has a lot more to go. My ability to try to parse out adoption stuff from annoying teen stuff seems weaker than usual or maybe it’s just that they are overlapping and related. Technology and access to it continues to be a problem—trying to find balance in giving her sufficient access so that she learns how to use it appropriately, particularly is social settings still feels like a slow painful death to me. And feeling Hope’s resentment because Yappy loves me more (he does; it’s a fact) makes me sad, even if Yappy unwavering preference for me makes me love him even more.  Yep, it’s all good, even when it’s bad, I guess.

Hope has come so far this year. I mean we both reflect back on the drama of 11 months ago, and it’s shocking how much things have improved. Shocking. And yet we still struggle.

Life: It’s complicated.

So I’m hoping we can pull it together and keep it together enough to not have too many more meltdowns during the next couple of weeks. I am looking forward to Christmas festivities, new traditions and time with family and friends.

Merry Christmas folks!

Random Loss

Several times a week I get a startling reminder of Hope’s losses and varied experiences in her early life. It’s always jarring. I marvel at her strength and ability to just talk about things now. I’ve gotten so much better on focusing on that moment and figuring out what she might need. Sometimes she doesn’t seem to need anything but the comfort in knowing that she can interweave these moments into daily life.

The moments sit in her memory bank, and whether I like them or not, they are life points of reference for her. However awful they may be, they often represents how she sees the world.

Sometimes it’s a random reference to some kind of abuse she experienced. Other times it’s a reminder that neglectfulness made her miss out on childhood trimmings. Some days it’s wondering what it would be like to have been adopted by another family in a foreign country. Still other times it’s her fear in asking for something as simple as a snack because she’s used to such inquiries coming with consequences.

In the moments I feel anger first, compassion second, sometimes my own sadness third.   I feel blind fury that she has had such a hard time. I am mad because so many of our struggles have easy to understand, obvious triggers rooted in these random moments of loss on a day to day basis. I am reminded of loss I have experienced in my own life. Sometimes I hurt even though I know she loves me and I’m her mom.

It’s like a really long, crazy game of red light, green light.

Green light: we are cruising through life.

Red light: Screeching, distracting halt.

Yellow light: Tread lightly, maybe stop, maybe go.

We are making such progress, but some days…Sigh.

I am glad that she feels safe. I’m glad that she is able to express herself. I’m glad that I have better skills to help her navigate these challenges. But I wonder if we will get to a time when we have less of these moments and more green lights.

Why this Life is Awesome

I have several dear friends from high school with whom I’ve remained close over the years.  This year, many of us turned 40.  It’s one of those birthdays that seem to be a fork in the road where you either run to it or go kicking and screaming—Ok, the kicking and screaming might be a bit dramatic, but let’s just say that some folks are not excited about turning 40.

I could not wait to be 40.  I couldn’t wait.  I’ve been ready to be 40 for a couple of years. Why was I a 40 runner?  I enjoyed my 20s immensely.  There was a season in my life when I was footloose and fancy free; I went out and partied a lot.  I enjoyed the joys of tequila a lot.  I had a collection of little black dresses.  I met cute guys and danced until 4am on a Wednesday and was still in the office working before 9am!  Then life got really, really real in the 30s.  My ability to refresh and reboot between 4am and 9am started to wane.  I learned how great red wine and good quality food could be.  I transitioned to wanting to find a nice lounge on a Friday night rather than wanting to hit the club.  I morphed into a fun loving homebody; I’d done my partying.  Friends started getting cancer or having heart attacks; some died.  I struggled with my own serious health issues throughout the decade.  My parents started to show some age, and I began to worry about the need to help them make plans, especially when I had to start attending funerals and sending condolence cards to friends who lost their parents.  A couple of epic failed relationships crystalized some long term thoughts about relationships.

It was sometime in my 30s when I realized that I was really good and grown and dealing with life’s rigors.  The 40 plus crew also deal with life’s rigors but there seemed to be a bit more emotional freedom and less caring about what folks thought about how you chose to live your life.  I still cared way too much about what other people thought about my decisions for much of my 30s.   The day after I turned 40 it was like a switch flipped and I really didn’t care as much and sometimes I don’t care at all.

Something about that emotional freedom I started seeing just before 40 keyed me in on the time when I knew this would be the time to move into adoption and parenting.  This month, I’ve noted that the pre-40/pre-Hope chapter is really coming to a close and again, I feel like I’m running to the new chapter.  Sure, I’ve chuckled and raised a glass to the last unfettered happy hour, the last trip to my hometown without Hope, the last weekend of staying out to go to the movies or dinner or “the club” without the need for a babysitter.  For many of my friends they experienced the first wave of this parenting transition of the ‘lasts’ years ago while I was still running around like a wild horse from Chincoteague Island.  Several friends have celebrated these lasts with me with both joyous smiles and sometimes sad eyes because my “single girl, sex in the city,” ala Carrie Bradshaw, days are closing out.

Gawd, I haven’t been Carrie Bradshaw-like for about 7 or 8 years, though I like buying shoes.  And even Carrie started liking being home as the show dragged on.  Life’s adventure profile changed, just like mine is changing.  It isn’t sad.  It’s an evolution and while the transition can be…rough…it is transformative.  I have no regrets about my previous chapters; they were great, but <shrug> they are what they are now, great and sometimes not so great memories.

A friend and I went to what we thought was a hookah lounge after dinner and cupcakes last night and found that it was really a 20 something club.  This friend is becoming famous for dragging me into situations where I end up pondering my previous life chapters in cheeky ways.  Last night, a 24 year old cutie bought us a round of shots and asked me if I was scared of the shot.  Bless your heart (as we say in the South), no child, I’m not scared of this shot and took it down way easier than he took his down.  Knowing I could be his MTV Teen Mom made me giggle not because a young dude was chatting us up, but because the whole scene for me was so utterly ridiculous.  Young women teetering on heels trying to look a blend of young, but older and sophisticated, and apparently dancing just means grinding—there was a Miley Cyrus-VMA look-a-like out there twerking for her life with anyone she could back that thing up to on the dance floor.  I had on an Old Navy sweatshirt with some sequins, a pair of jeans and some shoes similar to clogs.   I watched the scene, remembered the days when I rolled out of the house in a tiny dress with spindly heels and no coat in 30 degree weather.  It was awesome at the time, but now I just want a vodka tonic and a couch.  And when the 20 somethings made it rain in the club with paper napkins, I puffed away on my blackberry hookah, laughed and thought I wouldn’t do my 20s or 30s again for anything, even knowing what I know now.   I also looked at my watch and grimaced; it was going on midnight, and I am not into the whole “turn up” phenomenon.  I was ready to turn in.

So, like I was eager to turn 40, I am eager to welcome Hope into my life.  Oh it’s going to be drama at a whole new level, but it’s ok.  This has been an amazing life and I have no doubt that the Hope chapters will be rich and colorful and that 20 years from now, I’ll look around and ponder my 40s and chuckle when a then 40 year old man sends me a glass of Cabernet because he likes my silver fox hair.  This has been one of the most challenging years of my life but also hands down the best year.  I’m so blessed to step into this next chapter; I don’t need to look back; I don’t care what people think.  This life is awesome; it’s not what I would’ve planned, but God’s plan for me has worked how pretty well.  I guess he’s good like that.  Ha!

Life can be only what you make it
When you’re feelin’ down
You should never fake it
Say what’s on your mind
And you’ll find in time
That all the negative energy
It would all cease

And you’ll be at peace with yourself
You won’t really need no one else
Except for the man up above
Because he’ll give you love
(My life, my life, my life, my life)
If you looked into my life

Take your time
Baby don’t you rush a thing
Don’t you know, I know
We all are struggling
I know it is hard but we will get by
And if you don’t believe in me
Just believe in He

‘Cause he’ll give you peace of mind, yes he will
And you’ll see the sunshine for real, yes you would
And you’ll get to free your mind
And things will turn out fine
Oh, I know that things will turn out fine
Yes they would, yes they would
(My life, my life, my life, my life in the sunshine)

                                    My Life by Mary J. Blige

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