Tag Archives: Single Parenting

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.


Thoughts on McKinney

I’ve been dealing with a lot lately. A lot, a lot.

So when the news of #McKinney pool party fiasco blew up a couple of days ago, I thought to myself: “I. CANNOT. DEAL. WITH. THIS. ISH.”

I mean what else can we write about police brutality, about the worth of human life, about the invisibility of privilege, about fear-mongering, about the expectation that black and brown folks just be quiet and conform, about how if only black and brown people weren’t actually black and brown…

I respect authority.

I and my family have quite many law enforcement folks in our friend circles.

Not all cops are bad.

But we black and brown folks apparently have a problem with cops.

We do. Or rather, they have a problem with us.

And the increasing scrutiny, protests, anger, body cams, calls for peace, law suits, indictments and prosecutions seems to not have stemmed what feels like a persistent assault on people who look like me.

Sure, it’s easy to say that I have attained a certain amount of privilege thanks to sacrifices (by of a lot of folks before me and around me) and education, and that I’m not like *those* people in the numerous videos showing black and brown bodies being slammed to the ground, begging for their very lives. It’s easy with a bit of privilege to ask, “Well, why didn’t they just comply and do what the officer asked before he asks it?” It’s easy to dismiss the validity of the brutality that we are seeing day in and day out by digging into backgrounds of victims as young as 12, and recasting them as low-life thugs worthy of harassment, of physical and emotional brutality, of neighborhood terrorism (#yeahIsaidthatish) and of death.

It’s easy to write them us off.

It’s also apparently easy to conclude that we provoke the well-meaning folks around us committed to protecting us to turn on us.

There is seemingly a very, very, very thin line between love and hate.

Weekly…weekly…I have to have a conversation with Hope about police brutality. It doesn’t matter that we might be fighting like cats and dogs about ish going on in our house, but we will stop the war momentarily to discuss the latest video, the latest funeral, the latest indictment or why there isn’t one handed down by a grand jury.

I have to remind Hope, and myself, that not all cops are bad. I have to defend the blue line even if I’m not so sure they would defend or protect us 100% of the time. I have to try to help regain and retain trust in a system my daughter came to me hating because of her previous interactions with it with her first family.

I managed to avoid watching the video of the McKinney pool party for a couple of days. I just couldn’t watch it. I read about what happened. I saw the calls for action all over my personal FB page and all over twitter. But I would not click that link.

I didn’t want to be angry. I didn’t want to be sad. I didn’t want to be fearful. I didn’t want to imagine being a victim.

But by Monday morning, I couldn’t avoid it anymore. So after I got to the office for the day I logged on to YouTube and watched it.

I cried.

There are lots of reasons my emotional response. The video starts off easy enough; a cool headed officer talking with kids, explaining why they shouldn’t run from the cops. Enter the offending officer whose yelling and attitude changed seemed to change everything about what happened next. I couldn’t believe the language being used around these kids. I couldn’t believe the ease with which white people in the video moved around at their own leisure, while black people were chased, yelled at, snatched up, forced to sit, weapons drawn upon. I couldn’t believe that a grown ass white woman spewing racial epithets fought a teenager setting off a series of events leading to this fiasco.

I couldn’t believe how much that teenaged girl, flung around and sat on, face down in the grass, looked like my daughter Hope.

Both tall with lanky limbs, long twists or braids swinging as they moseyed on the sidewalk, apparently too slow for the officer to be satisfied (Lawd does Hope walk slow!). And she may have said something snarky as teens do, I don’t know.

But seconds later, I heard her calling for her mother. I heard her begging for a reason for why this grown ass man was sitting on her. I saw two teenaged boys move towards her to help only to be chased off by a cop with a weapon drawn, suddenly chased at his behest by two other cops.

I know how easily Hope gets scared. I know how easily she reacts to uncomfortable situations. She might’ve run to try desperately to get away from the unfolding drama, but that might’ve got her sat upon as well. I see her in my mind’s eye, crying for me, begging for me to come see about her, to come save her.

And I see me rescuing her, and hugging her, smoothing her hair, wiping her tears and calling someone to come sit with her while I proceed to lose my ish and wreck shop. #rideordie

It would really be nice to live in world where I didn’t have to have this conversation with my daughter every week. It would be really nice to live in a space where my skin didn’t mark me as other in ways that people apparently find threatening.

I. CANNOT. DEAL. WITH. THIS. ISH.


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.


A Journal

So I got started with a new therapist last month. Sadly she is not an Absurdly Hot Therapist like my and Hope’s family guy. But she is a nice, motherly/aunty-like, African American woman. She’s just what I need…for so many reasons, not the least of which is that she seems to be a good therapist.

It’s nice to have a super safe space to say the things I don’t dare utter anywhere else.

I’m still grieving the break with my old therapist. We’d been together for a really long time, so it was probably time for us to split anyway, and then there’s the fact that my insurance wouldn’t pay for my visits to him and paying out of pocket was getting kind of old. So, for the low co-pay of $10, I can see her as much as I like. I think I’ll call her Aunty Therapist.

So, Aunty Therapist told me that I need to keep a journal to lift the burden of the things I can’t talk about publicly, not even on the blog.

So, I got a new journal.

20150516_191048

“Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick and pull yourself together” ~~Liz Taylor

I bought fancy pens too. I like fancy pens a lot.

And I’m trying to figure out where to start. I used to journal all the time. I have decades worth of journals I’ve written over the years in my home. Provisions for them have even been made in my will. Decades of journaling and two years of blogging and I have no idea where to start.

Sigh.

I’m really, really struggling with Hope these days.

It really is exhausting; she is exhausting me.

I love my daughter, but every day I wonder what the hell I’m doing.

I’m just doing a lot of second guessing. And I’m plagued by all the emotions I typically write about. Low confidence, loneliness, anger, sadness, overwhelm…and so on. Sometimes the dark emotions feel and seem…unspeakable because they are just so awful. And then guilt about feeling any of it comes in to crush everything.

Confessing all this stuff in print is hard, but I suppose keeping it all in is harder. I know it doesn’t help.

So, I guess I’d better get to writing.


The Band Clique

Hope has about 5 weeks left of school, more or less. This would also be 5 weeks left of middle school—thank you Holy Homeboy. I remember some highlights of my own middle school years, but I seem to largely have blocked it out from my mind. I’m now convinced it is because middle school sucks.

Your hormones really kick in.

Relationships are complicated and have the lifespan of a butterfly (about a week or two, if you were wondering).

You struggle with developing your own sense of style or just falling in with the ubiquitous jeans and t-shirt routine.

Cartoonish attempts at applying makeup abounds.

Sexuality is questioned.

There is a constant need to fit in and standout.

And it’s all misery inducing.

Ugh.

Yeah, middle school sucks. I knew it would suck for Hope; hoped it wouldn’t, but anticipated that it would. What I didn’t anticipate was how much I would get swooped up into the suckiness.

During the last year and a half, I’ve developed yet another identity that I didn’t see coming. First I was Black, then single, then I became an adoptive mom. Then there were the times I was just a Single Black Mom. Then I became Dr. ABM.

Talk about intersecting identities…

So, somewhere along the way, I also became a Band Mom.

Yep, Hope is a band geek—do they still call them that? Is it Gleek now? I dunno, but I do know that I’m a Band Mom.

I’ve chaperoned a few field trips, gone to most of the concerts (I’ve missed a couple because of business travel), dragged a tenor sax to various practices, hired accompanists for solo ensembles, asked about reed readiness, baked sweets for fundraisers, bought and sold magazines, poinsettias, popcorn, nasty cheesecakes, cookie dough and pizza dough, and sat in stanky band rooms (‘cause middle schoolers are funky—and that descriptor is being polite and generous) helping put on cummerbunds, bow ties and pearl necklaces, and I’ve worked car washes during which the parents worked harder than the kids.

Despite all of this, at this week’s band concert I realized that I was still not a part of the band parents’ clique.

Oh, they remember me because I’m at all the major events and I volunteer, and well as the only Black band parent who seems to be active, I know they see me. #donthitmewiththatidontseecolorfoolery

But I don’t get any invites. They don’t remember my name; they remember that we, Hope and I, relocated mid-year last year; they forgot that we are an adoptive family and I’ve lived here over half my life—I guess I don’t hold that one against them.

I am on the margins because these folks have known each other since elementary school, and I’m still the newbie. I am the chick who sidles into conversations, waiting to jump in like a game of double-dutch. The one who is showing the new social media tracking app I’m using to monitor Hope’s internet wanderings. The one who is asking who’s going to be at the next event and can they save me a seat since I don’t have anyone to sit with (see that single identity).

During this week’s concert, I found myself sitting next to one of the cool Band parents, “Jen” (not her real name). I like Jen a lot; she’s fun and sarcastic and just my kinda chick. She also saved me a seat.  #score!

At one point in the concert, the band director was explaining the history of an Elizabethan march the kids were about to play. I rolled my eyes dramatically, since I’m kinda over hearing this song during practice.

Jen giggled and said, “You are such a bad influence on me!” She said it that way that you know she totally digs the fact that you’re irreverent and cool and fun. #shelikesme #shereallyreallylikesme

And in that moment I realized that I was in middle school all over again. #ugh

To quote Hope, I like, literally, rolled my eyes dramatically to get Jen’s attention and let her know I was too cool for school and I was like, literally, in like my heart, like literally thrilled that she responded in a way that literally let me know that I had hit the mark.

Literally.

I was cool and I *might* just be breaking into the cool Band parents’ clique. #nobodyfresherthanmyclique

And I was mad happy about that ish. Especially since Jen said, we had like, literally, 4 years of band hanging out to do when the kids started high school this fall.

I am so in!

OMG!

Literally.

Literally is a word that is spoken in my home like, I dunno, literally 8 billion times a day. I hate that word.

I can’t believe this Band parent identity is really a thing. How the devil did I get caught up in caring about whether I was a part of the cool parents’ group? #causeIsecretlywanttobecool And why weren’t more brown and black parents involved in Band Parenting and was there some underground group they had that I also needed to break into? #wherearemypeeps

Where do I belong? What am I doing?

A better question is what in the entire hell is going on here? I have resorted to tween antics trying to fit into this new identity of Band Mom. Holy Hey-Zeus, I’m in middle school all over again. #hangsheadinshame

And yet, I find myself still hopeful that I broke into the clique sufficiently before high school starts. I’d hate to have to be still sweating these folks this fall. #iaintgottimeforallthat

That would be, like, so not cool.

Like, literally not cool at all.


Thoughts on the Single Life

I am a single mom.

I’ve been giving this single adjective a lot of thought lately.

I have really been feeling the weight of being a single parent, certainly, all of Hope’s time with me, but it’s been especially so the last few weeks. I think because parenting Hope has been more challenging recently.
I have to do everything. Between Hope’s modest, but still present, emotional delays, and the typical teendom antics, it is an exhausting job keeping her out of trouble and keeping her on the path to healing. I know I’ve done a good job, I can see it, but good Lord, I’m so tired and alone.

When it’s tough, I’m drawn into thinking about not having someone to tag out or that I need to call the sitter for some respite time and fret about the costs since there’s only one income. It feels hard and lonely. At the end of the day, at the end of a long challenging day, it is just me. When I think about the depth of that toughness…that loneliness, I am drawn back to grieving about the life I thought I would have. Not that this one is bad, but it’s just…harder than I thought it would be.

And I know that it is ok. It has to be, right?

Oh, I appreciate the few upsides: I don’t have to consult with anyone on how best to raise Hope. I get to make all the decisions. I get to be the ultimate ride or die mom because it’s just me!

But it’s not easy. It isn’t at all easy.

Lately, I have been wondering what the devil I was thinking getting into this journey alone. I knew it would be challenging, but I never would have conceived that it would be this hard. I wonder what it would be like if I had husband when I started. What would it be like to have had a husband or just long time love to help me raise Hope? I wonder if Hope would have still been my kid if I was partnered; my being single was an important part of our match.

Of course I’ll never know.

But I do wonder.

I suppose ultimately I would prefer not to be a single mom. I don’t know if my status will ever change. Again, this journey is just not what I thought it would be. We’re surviving; we may even be on the path to thriving, but this single parenting thing is not what my plan was supposed to be. And sometimes that reality makes me sad.


The Absence of Men

I never planned to be a single mother, and for the record, this ish is hard.  Just the logistics alone are sometimes mindboggling.  I’m tired.  I often wondered before I entered motherhood how on earth folks managed.  Now I wonder how I manage–even when I have the bi-weekly housekeeper, daily dog walker, nannies.  It’s still just a lot.

Hope and I are sliding into nearly 15 months together now, and I’m starting to think about the relative importance of having a male figure in her life.  Originally, I had this fantastic goal of having this council of dads who would help out and weigh in, but yeah, the first year of our life together has been so mired in trying to make crooked lines somewhat straight that I haven’t been able to give the whole concept much thought.  Hope was so adamant about even forbidding me to date, much less eventually marry, that I just abandoned the notion of introducing her to any male friends in hopes that some meaningfulness would spring forth through knowing some wonderful men.

Jeesch, Hope also hasn’t met many of my girlfriends–some of whom can be pissy about that–so there’s that.

But it’s a year later, Hope’s a lot more sturdy now.  We are going through the middle school relationship gauntlet, and not only does she know I’m dating; she seems to understand it’s serious.

And it’s a year later and I see her going through the trials and tribulations of early adolescence, and I want to slay some of these bama dudes that make her cry. I see her struggling with trying to figure out how to navigate platonic and romantic relationships; I also see how the impact of seeing unhealthy relationships is shaping her burgeoning views on romance.  It all makes me sad.

Nearly two years ago, it was so important to the match that men weren’t involved in parenting Hope; there were lots of reasons for this.  Now that this time has passed, I wonder how not having really any men in her life is affecting her. I wonder if I can really coach her through some really important stuff.  I value the male perspectives in my life immensely.  I know that she would benefit from hearing how men think from a man.  Like a lot of single parents out there, I wonder if and how I can compensate for not providing that other perspective.

But I also know that maybe she’s still not ready for having a guy around.  She’s increasingly curious about Elihou, but I can tell it’s more from a perspective of ” Ohhhm mom’s dating” as opposed to thinking, “this guy might actually be my stepdad one day.”

I thought about this stuff before I started parenting, but it seems so much more important to consider now.  I guess lots of folks do this single parent thing, so we’ll be fine.  But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit wishing life was a bit different.


Back to School

This!

Tomorrow!

That is all.


The Grownup Toddler

Warning, this post is a whiny, epic vent. I’m ok with that. I’ve had a good stretch recently. That said, I also know it’s pretty pathetic. It is what it is. #shrug

I am selfish. Yeah, I can admit it. Don’t let all this adoption stuff about opening my home and heart fool you. I. am. Selfish. And I’m really struggling with both the selfishness and the guilt I’m saddling myself with for being so damn selfish. Despite the fact that I love my kid and my new life with her, I desperately miss my old, single, no kid having life. I have no regrets, but the truth of the matter is that today I’m not feeling it.

There I said it or typed it.

As Hope and I continue to settle into our life together, I can’t help but wrestle with the things I don’t want to share with her. I am actually hoarding parts of my life.

There are certain foods that I hide from her. I’ll even admit to just never saying that they are in the house—probably because I stash them under the seat of my car. I bought my favorite gourmet popcorn today. I’m leaving it at the office because I don’t want to have to share it. I would share it if I took it home. There’s a part of me that would be happy to share it. But I’m equally satiated just leaving it on my desk in my office so I don’t have to share it. I also hate sharing my gum with her. I order a very specific type of gum in bulk from Amazon with regular frequency (don’t judge me, it’s my thing!). I don’t like other gums. I don’t ask to bum other gum off of folks. I get my gum in large quantities so I always have my favorite stress manager. I just want to take my Extra Sugar-Free Bubble Gum and shove it in my mouth. My mouth. I buy Hope her own gum, but she wants my gum. Why the heck does she have to have *my* gum?

I do not want to share my gum. Yes, I am selfish and I am petty.

I am glad she thinks my homemade cookies are too sweet; I do not have to share them with her and I can enjoy them late at night with wine—not good for my waistline, but whatever.

I find myself struggling to share space sometimes. I want to watch something only for adults on the big TV during hours other than 11pm-5:30am. Of course Hope always wants to watch her shows on the big TV. This morning, she stood so close to me while I was buzzing around the kitchen that I wondered whether we were sharing shoes and underwear, I just had to stop and say get out of my way. The kitchen is mine.

I want to have Lucky Charms for dinner, with a rum and coke, and a giant piece of chocolate cake for dessert. But I can’t. I can’t because to do so would require me to snarf/imbibe all of it on a stool in my walk in closet, in the dark. Hiding. The side eye that Hope would serve me for my dinner of choice would shame me into eating broccoli without any seasoning at all…probably for a week.

I long to be selfish with my time again.  No, I don’t want to watch another Bruno Mars concert clip on YouTube. I don’t want to do hair—not even my own—I can probably stretch my afro puff another day. I don’t feel like walking The Furry One, especially since right now I have to carry him because he’s so wobbly. I just want to sit and watch this Redbox movie without one single question being asked about why Noah is building this dang ark again and why didn’t all the animals kill each other in the boat. I do not want to rouse myself early to do parent ish in the morning—the routine paperwork is alarming. And despite my exuberant extroverted-ness, I do not want to talk before 7am. Ok, sometimes before 8am. Please stop talking to me.

I also do not want to share my stuff. “What’s that?” Hope asks. “Nothing,” I reply. It’s my new headphones, or a glass of koolaid (ok, that’s a lie, it’s really a shiraz), or a piece of chocolate that I surreptitiously snuck into the house or my new eye shadow or a new hair product that I’m trying out or a book I got from the library when we went yesterday—you got your own books, go on, go on sit down somewhere. Stopppppppppp [insert excessive whining here]!

I feel like a toddler who is walking around touching stuff going, “Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.” I know it’s wrong. I feel really guilty about it all. But I’d really like to not find smudge marks on the mirror, see the laundry sorted, and have her volunteer to make Velveeta shells and cheese for dinner, even though I think it tastes like plastic…Yeah, not going to happen.

I am acutely aware that Hope has done not one thing wrong. Nothing at all. She’s just fine and acting age appropriate and everything. I really am the toddler in this relationship. Sigh.

There’s not a day that I don’t feel at least a little passing fancy of selfishness. I’ve gotten better at admitting it and letting it go and float on by as I choose to sacrifice bits and pieces of my life for Hope. It is worth it, but today I’m not feeling it one bit. I need to be like ComplicatedMelodi and “take to my bed” with my wine and cookies and some fancy cheese and Triscuits. I will spread them on my comforter and scream—Mine! Then I’ll close the door to the world.

Sigh. But I won’t do that. It’s soft taco night, and that is one of Hope’s favorite meals. I won’t disappoint her. So I’ll put my big girl undies on and be a grown up. Sigh.


K E Garland

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