Tag Archives: New Adoptive Mom

Dr. ABM!!!

Well, I’m done! Yay! My presentation was marred by a few technical problems, but I moved through it and survived. I had a few questions from my committee and the program directors and that was that!

Congratulations, Dr. ABM!

Well, actually the program director doesn’t want to call us Dr. until the dean signs off. Whatever, man!  I’m a doctor!

I had a great dinner with Hope and some cousins, and I’ve snarfed two cupcakes and a glass of wine.

I’m exhausted. I’m four years exhausted. I’m four years, one full time job, one newly, adopted kid with all kinds of drama tired. I am Tie-Erd.  Seriously, my shoulders and back hurt. Today I’ll rest; just rest.

Ok, that’s a lie.

I still was up at 5:30 to make sure the morning routine stayed the morning routine. I’ve folded one load of laundry and I’ve got two more loads going. I’ve changed the bed linens and Febreeze’d the house—tweens smell funny. Ick. As soon as the laundry is in the dryer, I might snooze for an hour.

Hope was happy for me. It seemed genuine. This week she said she was happy sometimes; this is an improvement. The routine is working, even the new bedtime of 9:15 has gone over smoothly. It’s been a good week.

So what now?

On to the next thing, whatever that is!


Dedication

To my daughter, Hope.

You were only a far away thought in my mind when I initially dreamed of earning my doctorate. I found you near the end of this journey, and now I cannot imagine my life without you. I am so happy you are with me as I achieve this goal.

You have helped me to discover new depths of inspiration, love and compassion. You have given me a new life that I joyfully step into as I end this program.

My hope is that this project will inspire you to realize and know in your heart that you can achieve your heart’s desire, no matter how your journey begins. I dedicate this to you as my promise to always be your biggest cheerleader and champion in realizing your dreams.

Momma loves you.


Just a Few Days Before the Defense

Last night I finished my dissertation defense draft and my presentation for Thursday!  Hot dang it, I’m nearly done.  It was a great day, though I haven’t had a lot of sleep thanks to the need to finish up and get these materials out the door and to my committee and program directors.  Hope and I hit the National Zoo this weekend with her godmother for a lovely, sunny, fun loving day.   Monday we had a snow day and yesterday it was 70 degrees—go figure.   So, time to get into my introspective weekend posts about what the devil I learned this week.

Hope is really feeling some kind of way about Grammy.  It hasn’t been what she’s said exactly—other than a request not to see Grammy anytime soon—but rather it’s just all the little emotional boxes that it opened during the week.  The last two days of the visit were hard, and I can tell that some trauma resurfaced.  The desire to have a loving, accepting Grammy weighed on Hope more than I understood.  This week has been filled with a burning desire to find out whether her paternal grandmother is still alive and if she could see her.  So great is her need that over dinner one night Hope asked all sorts of questions about Ancestry.com and whether her bio-grammy needed to be a member in order for her to find her.  Poor baby wants her bio-grammy, no doubt because it is a connection to her dad, but also because she doesn’t think this new Grammy thing is going to work out.

I am still feeling some kind of way about Grammy, too.  We had a civilized chat today.  I don’t know where we go from here next, but I’m wary and I’ve got to protect my kid.  Grammy just wasn’t ready and the whole thing freaked her out.  That’s all well and good, but the fall out was just too much for all of us.  I imagine it to be  taste of the abandonment and rejection Hope has repeatedly experienced.  I believe this is the Holy Homeboy’s way of teaching me empathy; I really do wish he would take a different tact, but whatever.

We can’t go back but we can go forward, with more emotional guardrails, limited quality time and lots of prayer.  I’m serious about learning to practice grace.

Mimi is right; there is a lot of dissonance around how we were raised and how we must raise our kids.  Don’t know who fellow blogger Melodi is?  Go check out this new mom’s blog and peep her new discussions about reconciling the way she and hubby are raising Nana versus how they were raised.  It’s especially easy to say what you’re going to do when you have kids when you don’t have any; and especially so when you’re single like me—I don’t have to consult with anyone on any dang thing (except the host of social workers, but that’s a temporal issue)!  It’s a whole other box of bricks when you have a bundle of joy who didn’t spring from your loins and has unique issues that require a wholly different style of parenting.  It’s a bit jarring.  It also reminds you that things didn’t turn out the way you thought, even though they are great in their own way.  It’s just different, not bad, just different and well, different can be hard.   I’m sure it also triggers some Grands issues as they see you not following the models that they laid out for you.

Hope really does have to learn how to be happy.  We had a visit with a new health care provider this week and during in-take the nurse asked about depression.  Hope said, well of course I’m depressed!!  Duh.  I learned later that while she was happy about being adopted and she cared for me a lot, even loved me, anybody could’ve adopted her and she just wouldn’t be happy like she thought she would be.  She has to adapt and she has to learn to trust that this is real, and she has to just let go long enough to believe that she will be safe enough to try to be happy.  It is hard to wrap your head around a kid not knowing and trusting to be happy.  It’s also hard for outsiders to wrap their heads around why the adopted child can’t just flip the switch after placement and be happy and — an even bigger, more challenging concept—be grateful.

I’ve written before about how Hope doesn’t need to be grateful; and even I’m guilty sometimes in my parenting of thinking, “Really girl?  After all the bending over backwards I did this week for you, you can’t say thanks after I went out of my way and picked up another bag of your favorite lime Tostidos??”  It’s hard watching her in this space and it’s hard sometimes living in this space, unable to trust the life around her enough to just let go and enjoy it.  I can see that some days are much better than others; sometimes I see that her happiness and contentment are truly moment to moment concepts.  Down mood triggers can be anywhere and everywhere.  It really just takes time and healing.

Hope is still on the come up.   So this week after much probing and prompting about where to go out to eat, Hope finally said she wanted to go to the Old Country Buffet (OCB).  <gag>  ABM does not do buffeterias; call me bougie and I’ll say that’s my name.  #jesusbeasneezeguard  I just hate the OCB.  Now don’t get me wrong; I loved that place as a kid, and I even rocked the hell out of that buffet when I was in college.  But when Hope asked to go to the OCB, I silently started praying…And when the heck did a trip for two to the OCB cost $30????  Anyhoo, I found the salad bar better than expected and dug in.  Hope filled her plate with all kinds of fare and after a few bites proclaimed 1) that the OCB was not the right place; it must be another buffet (Does this mean we have to go to another one?), 2)her rationale was because the food wasn’t all that good 3) she liked some of the other restaurants we’d enjoyed since her arrival.  Training the palate is a slow process, but we’re making progress! At least I don’t need to go to the OCB anymore.  Praise the Lord.

Hope and The Furry One seem to have a modest truce.  There’s cuddling and snuggling and belly rubs.  I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s up.

That’s it folks.  In four days I defend my dissertation and shift gears to focus on the administrative tasks of finalizing things.  I’m actually too tired to be so excited, but I am excited.  I’m taking the little lady to dinner that evening to celebrate.  It’s going to be an awesome week!


Still So Much to Learn

The last few days have been nearly dream-like.  I’ve loved on Hope hard and just focused on allowing her to just be.  We watched movies; we shopped; she talked and I listened.  I learned…a lot.  So this brings me to my weekly recap of what I’m learning on this journey.

Hope is a kid and despite all the parentification she’s experienced, she wants to be a kid.  My daughter is two inches taller than me and has a shoe size that’s significantly bigger than mine.  My little girl could easily pass for older than her 12 years…that is until she opens her mouth and kiddie words start spilling out.  It’s easy to forget her age and aspects of her naiveté and to have unreasonable expectations of her when I have to tilt my head slightly up to talk to her.

But as I learn to let her be the kid she is and hasn’t had a chance to be, I find that she just blossoms overnight.  We’ve been consumed with boobs lately, triggering the need to go bra shopping.  Trying not to giggle when I’m having Beavis and Butthead flashbacks (boobies, heh heh heh, bobbies!) as she jumps her long legs around and grabs her boobs like she just discovered them is to see her comfortable, trusting and enjoying herself.  She’s really delightful.

Emotional growth requires a lot of patience and energy, but boy is the payoff worth it.   Hope and I have been stretched beyond what I personally thought was my own hard limit recently; apparently I was wrong.  Last night, after an epic trip to the mall for some shopping, Hope was reflective about her life.  She started to share things before we even left the mall, like how the last time we went shopping she was jealous about having to share the attention of a favorite cousin with said cousin’s friend.  She admitted how she felt about it and why it triggered a meltdown.  It was insightful.

On the way home she started telling me about her life and specific experiences.  There’s something about talking in the car, when we can’t really have a lot of eye contact because I’m driving that makes it safe to talk.  She told me more details about her bio-parents, what she knew, what she didn’t know, what she’d seen, what had happened.  When we got home she was still talking, so I just put the car in neutral and let her keep talking.  She was poised, thoughtful, and reflective.  At times I could hear how she was still trying to reconcile some of the more painful experiences with our talks about God’s love for everyone.

There was a sudden emotional maturity that I saw in her that made me so proud.   I reassured her that I would take care of her and that she was safe now.  It’s hard to remember how much work she has to put into this adoption thing and into getting healthy. Sometimes I can’t see that work; it’s been really hard to see her put in work these last couple of weeks.  Last night I saw all of the work she’s put in for the last few months, likely the last few years.  She amazed me.

I almost want to schedule a road trip so we have hours to talk.  All in due time.

Modeling desired behaviors works.  I’d seen hints of this lesson since she arrived, but I see Hope watching me and wanting to emulate me.  #whoknew?

During the last couple of weeks I’ve had her therapist, my therapist, my agency, my social worker, my friends and my new in-home parenting coach tell me I needed to carve out time for me to take care of myself.  So, for Lent I decided that I would work out in the living room everyday.  I told Hope that I would commandeer the living room for 30-40 minutes every evening and she would need to watch TV in her room or she could read or something in the living room with me.  I didn’t invite her to workout with me.    I’ve been working out since she’s been here, but with all of the schedule snafus it’s been inconsistent, but she knows I work out and that it’s important to me.  My Lenten commitment has upped the ante.

While I’m puffing away, she’s asking questions and offering commentary:  Why do I need to work out?  Oh it relieves stress?  Will it help me with my TMJ?  Core muscles make your back hurt less?  Cardio strengthens your lungs so your asthma is manageable in the spring?  Hmmm.

Today she did the warm up with me.  This from the girl who would have a tele-transporter in the house to get from the bedroom to the dining room if she could.

She’s also wants to take out her braids and embrace her natural hair.   This fab blown out fro of mine pushed her over the edge today.

BlownFro

Three weeks with the braids and $200 later, we’ll probably take them out in another week or so, so she can get her twist out on.

Sometimes you don’t get answers.    Nope, you just don’t get them.

I mentioned last week that my favorite book of the Good Book is Job.  Seriously, I just love the book of Job.  Job wasn’t patient, Job was pissed, really, really pissed and wanted God to tell him why all that crap happened to him.  He wanted to know why???  God was all like, “Um, and just who do you think you are talking to?  I mean, I love you little dude, but um, no, you are not the boss of me and I ain’t gotta answer none of your questions.  Stand down.”  #ABMBibleStories

Grandpa came to visit today, and like we have many times, we discussed Job. Grandpa reminded me that God never really does answer Job.  Job has to reconcile this with his faith and righteousness and just move on.

I kicked this around after Grandpa left today.  Admittedly, I was rather peeved with the Holy Homeboy in recent weeks.  I prayed and prayed and prayed.  He delivered but I just was pissed to even find Hope and I in this crisis at all.  Why???  Well there are certainly terrestrial reasons that explain why we suffered a crisis; but I wasn’t trying to hear any rationale about spiritual reasons.  Turns out God wasn’t trying to give me any anyway.  #dealwithit #shrug

And that’s the topline for this week.  Up next, Grammy comes for a four day stay, because you know, when I go in, I go hard.  Should be nothing short of revelational. #atouchofsarcasm  No really, I need help with drop offs and pick ups this week because of a big meeting, and well, Grammy’s been itching to be in the crib and in the mix.   Despite all of our drama I love my mom dearly, but I’d be sho-nuff lying if I didn’t expect (and delight) to see her a bit worn the heck out by Saturday evening; cause Hope is sure to be all the way live by then.

I defend my dissertation in 18 days.  #letsdothis  When I explained what the defense meant to Hope yesterday, she proceeded to announce to passersby in the store that her mom was going to be a doctor while hugging me and pointing.

And *that* is a moment that I’ll treasure forever.


Stability & Grace

Yesterday we hit a day of stability.  Hope returned to school.  I returned to work.  I had dinner on the table at a decent hour, and we acted silly for nearly two hours afterward.  No real static, no real drama.  We had a single moment that we both decided to let go before it turned into something that it didn’t need to be.

Yesterday, I watched Hope dancing and acting silly with her long arms and legs whirling around and thought to myself, “Yeah, this is cool.”

It’s amazing what a difference a day can make.  Wednesday was…

Ugh.

Yesterday, there was some backtracking on the RAD diagnosis. Does it matter?  I don’t know yet.  I’ve had to put those emotions on the shelf and just press forward.  I picked up some parenting books on attachment, on adoption blues, on adoption challenges and on parenting adolescents from the library, along with some recipe books.   When on earth will I have time to even flip through these books?  I don’t know.  My oral defense is shaping up to happen in about 20 days.  Onward and upward with good intentions, right?

Today I was talking to someone on the phone (who is apparently going to need a blog pseudonym soon, since I’m finding him creeping into this space), and he was chastising me on saying, “You know today is a good day, I just hope the weather doesn’t wreck it (we were supposed to get an ice storm this morning).”  Dude is eternally optimistic and urged me to find the silver lining, when all I could think about was how I associate bad weather with really hard times with Hope and breaks in new routines.  I had my defensive arguments all lined up when it dawned on me that he was right, and I should just shut up and listen and stop needing to be right.

Before Hope I always had to be right; most of the time I was right.  The times when I was wrong, I could find a way to make it right.  #fullofmyself #firststepisadmittingit Now I have so little control or my life that my need to pick and win absurdly small, inconsequential fights is really high, just so I can feel like I’m doing something right, when everything feels so ridiculously wrong.

So as I was sitting there listening to dude coach me to speak positively and being a little pissy about the conversation that I had conveniently re-labeled “lecture” for my convenience, I just realized that he was right, and I needed to be gracious and take his words to heart.   When I let that defensiveness and fear of judgment abate, I heard the emotion behind his words, which was sincere and very sweet.

WIN_20140307_171625#raisedeyebrow #smiling #hmmwhathavewehere?

I thought, “Self, ya gotta keep some of these guards down because you’re keeping out both the sour and the sweet.  Sometimes the sweet is far more powerful that the sour.  Get over yourself and get out of your own way.”

Another day, another lesson, right?  I do believe in the power of positive words, but it’s so easy to feel overwhelmed in the face of the mess that I’m experiencing.

So, today I’m going to try practice grace.  Shut up and listen.  Let some things just go.  Be deliberate about speaking positivity.  And admit that its hard and sad and that I need help, but also that there are sweet, sweet times too.  It seems that Hope isn’t the only one who needs to hear some affirmations and put them out into the universe.  I realized today that I’m so terrified of “breaking the kid,” that I’m very likely breaking me, and well, that isn’t going to be good for me or the kid.  At all.  Not even a little bit.

So I’m going to try to practice more grace and less fear.   Here’s to hoping it opens me up to more sweet than sour days in the future.  #2Corinthians129


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.


Fun Like a Root Canal

So, I registered Hope for school yesterday and today will be her first day even though we’ve got a two hour delay because of more in the southeast/mid-Atlantic region.  I knew both of us were anxious about this step but I didn’t think it would blow up the way it did.  Unfortunately, I had to move my plan to say “yes” to today and later this week because I had to white knuckle not strangling Hope while we were at the school.

So here’s the good news:  Hope took her ADHD meds which meant that she was not bouncing off the walls.  Her school counselor is very, very nice; I’m glad we took a tour and got to meet her during Hope’s earlier visit.   Mrs. Counselor was patient and kind to us, and very reassuring to me about this whole transition.

The bad news?  Well it really was like going to nicest dentist with a great staff and knowing you’re going to get a balloon and some cool stickers before it’s over, but first you’re going to have a root canal without any pain relief.  Enjoy.

Hope struggles with ODD; a lot of great people have really helped her during the last year, and I’ve studied, and I really am trying to not reinforce those behaviors (we take lots of timeouts to not feed the monster).  She’s come a long way, but she still has a long way to go.

Hope’s frustration with the different curriculum and the limited options for half year electives made her lose her ish right in the counselor’s office.  It was painful, embarrassing and just miserable.  My heart broke because I knew this was hard for her; but I was also furious because we discussed the options available to her 3 times before going to the school and I made it clear that I would give her choices, but if she refused to make a choice, a choice would be made for her.  That’s my job.

Of course my apparent expectation that she would be reasonable in retrospect was apparently too high.  The fact that I did my job only infuriated her more.  Then I sent her out to the lobby couch while I discussed her courses and her behavior with the counselor.

It really sucked.

Royally sucked.

The counselor is aware of our new, transitional family status and was reassuring and supportive.  She guessed accurately about my girl’s history of trauma and loss.  She was gentle in asking could she give the teachers a head’s up about this transition so that they try to not overly judge my girl.

I don’t want her labeled; she has so many labels already.  I just want to give her a chance.  But her behavior was so over the top yesterday that I thought it was in her best interest to give them a head’s up.

She really is like an angry feral cat sometimes.  You’re trying to save her and she just keeps hissing and scratching.

So, I’m going to pray that today goes smoothly and that she’ll keep it together and that she’ll have a good day.

That said, I would not be surprised to get a phone call.

Sigh.


OMG, She Looks Like You!

So, I’ve been pondering this topic for a minute and am finally sitting down to see if I can parse through some of my own thinking and feeling about a curious phenomenon related to my recent announcement to family and friends that I am adopting Hope.

Last month I posted a cute picture of Hope and me as an announcement of my #pregnantbypaperwork status.  The very, very kind and supportive comments flowed.  It was lovely, beyond lovely actually.  It was super awesome.  Numerous people commented, “OMG, you guys even look alike! Match made in heaven” or something like that.  I had a lovely chat with a sweet, dear friend who called to check in today.  During our chat, she broached this subject of my and Hope’s alleged resemblance tenderly, noting that she wondered if she really saw a resemblance or if it was some kind of way her brain was trying to knit Hope and I together in a supportive way.

Hmmm.  I’m utterly convinced it’s the latter.  Hope and I do not look alike, despite many comments to the contrary.  Good Lord, even my mother thinks Hope has my late uncle’s eyes…she might, maybe, a little bit.  Eh, shrug.

So, here’s my thinking on this:  People are happy for me (warm fuzzies).  People want to be supportive (more warm fuzzies).  We see what we want to see in order to further the desire to be happy and supportive.  This is pretty natural.  Hey, I dated someone for two miserable years because I thought being with him would one day, miraculously, make me happy—it didn’t.  Actually, I’ve had a few of those kinds of relationships, though I seem to have broken that nasty habit.   Ok, maybe that was a melodramatic example, but stay with me here.

I’m not creating a family the way that many of my friends are or have, and I had no desire to seek out a child who bore some resemblance to me or my family.  Sure I thought about it as I thought about all the various scenarios about what life would look like with my child and how we might be received by the world around us.  I really didn’t give much thought specifically to resemblance though; maybe because I just assumed we wouldn’t look anything alike.  I mean really, what are the odds??  It was startling when people started to comment about Hope’s and my alleged resemblance.   I didn’t see it then; I still don’t.  Hope says she favors her biological father; she’s proud of that.  She loved him very much.  She doesn’t have any pictures of him, so looking like her dad is important to her and her identity.

I’ve come to believe that the warm desire to help me tie my adoption of Hope together with a neat bow and be supportive leads the brain to seeing a familial resemblance between Hope and I that really isn’t there.  Of course, Hope’s desire to look like her father may affect any ability I have to find some shade of resemblance between us; the brain is funny that way.  I’m sure the fact that we’re both Black helps to facilitate all this brain activity.   I’m guessing it also happens in other same/similar race adoptions too.   I’m guessing this is not a particularly common occurrence in cross-racial adoptions, but some quick google searches reveal there are desires to find some kind of resemblance connection in these adoptions too.

With infants, we’ve all made comments about whether the little one looks like a presumed parent—this just happened with fellow blogger, Complicated Melodi, who was providing respite care for an infant recently.  Hope isn’t an infant, though, and really, I don’t think she favors me at all, so it’s an intriguing occurrence to receive these comments from pals.

This is different than when we’re out and about and someone assumes I’m Hope’s mom.  Usually, the assumption is based on our proximity together or their having been privy to a bit of our banter, which on my trip this week I realized totally sounds like a mom and tween daughter (Squeal!!  More on that later).  There is rarely a mention of any resemblance; no, this phenomenon only happens with people I know.

So, what’s the point of this post?  Not sure, other than to parse through another emotional nugget in the adoption process.   My daughter is lovely and just beautiful.  I don’t think she looks anything like me.  I have no idea if she looks much like either of her biological parents.   The compliment that Hope favors me is sweet and I think I understand what is really being seen and said.  I’m a mom. Biology really doesn’t matter, because I’m still a mom.  I’m grateful for the sentiment even if I don’t see the visual connection.  I’m also grateful that so many people were so kind and supportive of my new little family.


K E Garland

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