Tag Archives: Tween Parenting

February 4, 2014

Post-Placement Blues

By AdoptiveBlackMom

The daily cycle of anxiety and relief, meltdowns and recoveries is really just…a lot.  My birthday was actually meltdown free, but as someone commented on that blogpost, the angst about whether it would be meltdown free really kind of ruined it.  It wasn’t that anything bad happened at all.  In fact, Hope fixed my breakfast (brought me my yogurt and a spoon and poured my juice); got ready for church without incident (other than being glacially slow, but I’ve come to be happy with the fact that she’s starting to enjoy going); did not throw a tantrum when I chose a place for lunch where she got to try some bison ribs, and she read to me (more Silverstein–ick, but it was a lovely gesture).

Actually it was a nice day.   But I was/am still blue.

As usual, I’m just a grab bag of emotions.  It’s like the worst PMS I’ve ever experienced.  I’m happy about going back to work and embracing that part of my identity, but I’m sad because there was something cozy about being with Hope during the day.

I love that she calls me mom all the time now; and when she calls me mom in exasperated tween-speak it annoys the ish out of me.  I am also amused that apparently adoptive mom’s, like our bio-colleagues, instantly gain superpowers like hearing through walls and making things like laundry appear like magic.  She has called me no less than 9 times from her bedroom in the span of drafting these couple of paragraphs.  I also seem to be suffering from some odd, likely fatigue induced, brain fog.  Just can’t seem to get my brain to crystalize much of anything right now.

The Furry One has broken family ranks and gone wolf-rogue.  I still maintain he would never bite, he’s much to passive aggressive for that.  No.  Yesterday, The Furry One waited until I and Hope were in her room working on homework, entered, stood in the middle of her new pink fluffy area rug, lifted his leg and let ‘er rip.

Stunned and shocked, I removed the dog, got the rug, put it in the shower to hose it down (acrylic, Ikea rug), baking soda it and then put it out on the balcony to air out and dry.  Meanwhile, Hope finally had evidence to back up her righteous wailing about how The Furry One doesn’t like her.

Turns out, she’s right.  He doesn’t.  But I still don’t believe he tried to bite her.  This passive aggressive BS is way more his speed.

Sigh.

This was followed by a series of math homework meltdowns for her, a bridesmaid’s dress meltdown for me (fitting did not go well), a herd of social workers, former fosters, former therapists, the new social security caseworker and Hope’s new band teacher all calling/emailing/texting in a 3 minute window.  It was like being in an electronic sold out hockey game of rowdiness—just too much stimulation.  So after homework was done and the dress meltdown was shelved until today for resolution and Hope was in bed, I spent the better part of an hour, updating everyone on the going ons in my and Hope’s life.  I had to, right?  Because well all these people get to sign all those papers that say I get to keep my kid. Well, a bunch of them do anyway.

Then I spent 20 minutes in tears thinking of all the stupid things I’d done/tried/effed up at while attempting to parent over the last few days.  Yeah, several moments of, “Well, how’d that workout for you?  Not so good right?”  Fortunately, Hope is more resilient than me. When I consciously eff up, I apologize, which shocks her.  I tell her how I will do better next time, and then she lets it go, and I continue to silently punish myself until I do something worthy of even greater self-loathing.  I feel like the preacher who secretly beats himself in the Scarlet Letter.  But, wait, wasn’t he beating himself because he got it on with Hester Prynne?  Sigh, I’m not even getting any and am still engaging in this kind of self-loathing.  Awesome.  I don’t even seen an opportunity for that kinda happy sinning on the horizon–despite Hope’s prediction that I’ll marry by the time she’s 16.  Yeah.

Sigh.

So, then I broke out the red solo cup, only to realize that I was down to the last swallow of Baileys.  It wasn’t even a full shot.

Double sigh.  Really?

This morning, Hope brought up the fact that we’re both going through the blues.  Is this a post-placement thing?  It’s on my list of questions to ask around about.  I asked her what we should do about these blues, you know, besides getting drugs.

She said, “Ice cream.”

Is there a Bailey’s ice cream?  Because if there is, she might be right.

11 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Post Placement, The Transition

January 31, 2014

Facebook Make Up Sessions

By AdoptiveBlackMom

“…my life ruined right about now i wish i would have just stayed in washington i hate it here right now.”

Oy.

I didn’t even have to go into her Facebook account to sniff around like I normally do; she posted this as a comment on a photo, in a confab she was having with a FB friend.  I’ve set up our accounts that her posts always show up in my feed.

I was so sad to read that she was sad.  That said I also know when she posted it we had just locked horns badly because she threatened the Furry One.

Hope’s been on a quest to use The Furry One as a test of my loyalty to her.  She’s insisted that he is trying to bite her and that he doesn’t like her.  It makes her sad that he doesn’t want to sleep with her and that if given a choice, The Furry One is content right under one of my butt cheeks.  I’ve had him since he was 8 weeks old and he’s been my constant companion for 14 years. Of course he wants me.  He’s my first furry born.

They are both demanding of my time and both very jealous of the other, but Buddha does show affection towards Hope and the dog doesn’t bite.  He never has.  And now that he’s the equivalent of 98 in people years, he’s really just not about that vicious life.

We had a confrontation about her lying about Buddha, so then she threatened him.

And I went off.

Animal abuse and cruelty was at the top of my non-negotiable list, so when she threatened him I did not react well at all.   It doesn’t help that my resistance is low later in the day because I’m tired.  Make that utterly exhausted.

So I took a timeout—these are becoming routine in our home now.  I’m usually the one in timeout and I explain why, usually because I know that I’m too upset to have a productive interaction or I realize that I’m feeding into the ODD behaviors.  I just have to step away.

She eventually sought me out and we spent our time together before bed.  We’re cool.

Then I saw her FB post that was made while I was in timeout.

So, I inboxed my kid after she went to bed.

“Saw a post that you felt like your life was ruined here and that you hate it here right now. I know you wrote that after I was so angry about you accusing [The Furry One] of trying to bite you when we both agree now that he didn’t.  I’m sorry.  I am learning how to be a mom, and it’s harder than I thought. I am trying really hard, though. Sometimes I will do better than other times. Please know that even when I’m mad, I love you so very much. More than you’ll ever know. I think in time we will be just fine.”

“ps: [The Furry One] loves you and so do i.

“pps: I’m glad you like your school”

I didn’t say anything about it when she got up this morning.  I knew she would see it when she finally logged on.   Her response?

“Really mom?”

Along with this “sticker:”

eyeroll

Yeah, we’re cool again.   For now.

3 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Post Placement, Tween Parenting

January 14, 2014

7 Days and Counting

By AdoptiveBlackMom

So Hope and I have had phone contact every day since I told her that she was moving.  And every day our chats have hit a snag like an ugly hang nail.

I ended last night’s call abruptly because it was after 11pm my time, and I’d been working on my dissertation for 3 hours with only a few sentences to show for it (I’ve been doing analysis, so there’s technically stuff in my brain, but I can’t show that), and she was so obnoxious that I said to both of us:

“You know, I’ve only got a week before I have to deal full time both of our attitudes at the same time,  and then I only will be able to leave the room rather than just say goodbye and hang up.”

She replied, “Oh really? Ok, whatever” with lots of attitude and implied dare.

I said, “Yeah, love you.   Peace out homie.” And click.

Somewhere in there I feel a bit of guilt, but not a lot, very little actually.  So, yeah, I clicked the “end call” button, popped a sleeping pill so I could clock 4 hours of sleep and get up and back to work.

I feel like I’m racing.  Racing towards Hope and racing against time clinging to life before full-time Hope.

There are things I want and need to do before she gets here.  It feels like there isn’t enough time.  It probably doesn’t even matter, but it seems that it does on some level.  These fleeting moments of being able to say no and shut it down feel delicious.  I’m giving myself a break about the tiny bit of guilt I feel about that.

There’s a part of me that feels like I’ll be trapped once she’s here.  She’s not an infant, and we’re not really trapped, so I’m guessing it’s the reality of the WE versus the ME.  I really am fretting a bit about what happens to ME as a separate entity, separate identity.  I didn’t imagine this identity thing really freaking me out as much as it has.

Ugh.  Again, emotions are messy.   And nothing like practically hanging up on your obnoxious 12 year old daughter one week before placement, followed by irritating AM texting from an ex who wanted to remind me that he thinks of me all the time <eye roll>. Yeah, that kind of morning.  Blech.

Team meeting about the kiddo later today.

Sigh…

7 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in The Transition

December 25, 2013

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas

By AdoptiveBlackMom

I’m currently heading west to see Hope.  I’m excited and, well tired.  Last night, just before midnight east coast time, Hope called me up, clearly hopped up on sugar and full of cheer.  I was already in bed and a tad groggy.  We exchanged hellos and I pulled my sleepy mind together just in time to hear this:

“I wanted to tell you Merry Christmas, Mom.”

Even writing it and remembering it now makes my eyes water.  She finally called me mom.  And she was serious about saying this one word.  She stressed it, emphasized it.  She let me know that she’d consciously chosen to call me mom.

I remember dreaming one night this past summer about what it would be like to hear my adoptive child call me mom.  In my dream the kiddo was in his/her room and just called out “Mom!” as though he/she was calling me to see something in their room.  I remember I was heading into the kitchen when I heard the word, and I gasped, put my hand to my heart, and closed my eyes for a moment as I savored that single word before yelling back, “Yes?”

I remember thinking even though it was a huge deal, I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.  In my dream it was such an organic moment that I wanted to treat it as though it were normal, just like any bio-kid might say to his/her parents.   I remember it being so incredibly precious, and so organic and…so normal.

So, it’s an interesting juxtaposition to how I actually became Mom.   Hope’s and my path to our “Mom Moment” was so different than I imagined.  What to call me has been a frequent conversation ever since I flew out to see her in October the first time; even over our first meal together.  Hope was removed from her mother’s care at a very young age and the absence of a mother made it weird to finally, possibly be getting one.  Our conversations about what to call me continued right through her recent visit to VA over Thanksgiving.  It was then that I realized just how much she thought of me as her mom; she didn’t call me mom, but she referred to me as mom when talking to her friends on the phone or social media.  I remember writing about how that realization made being called mom not really matter.  I knew in my heart that seeing and accepting me in that role was far more important to me than whether she ever called me mom.   I was content with that.   It didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter until she deliberately chose to call me Mom mere minutes before the east coast clock struck midnight, marking the arrival of Christmas.

It was her gift to me.  And it was so incredibly amazing and precious and wonderful and just the best thing ever.

The.  Best. Gift. Ever.

And I tried to play a little cool, but really how cool can you be when you just received the gift that you deep down wanted more than anything in the world?  I tried not to cry, I wished my baby girl Merry Christmas back and I said the only thing you can really, humbly say when you get a gift like that.

I said thank you, Hope.  I love you.

Hope and I still have many miles to go and bridges to cross to make this thing work, but she’s made a choice.  She’s chosen me.   I chose her months ago, but she chose me.  She chose me at Christmas.  It is world-rocking and amazeballs.

She did follow up by asking if she was getting an Ipod when I pick her up tomorrow.

Kids, right?

No. She’s not, but bless her heart she is persistent about the techie-gadgets though, none of which she will be getting before she is permanently placed with me.

I’m en route to the west coast and will be there for my own little Christmas miracle first thing in the morning.  I’m still a bit disappointed that she isn’t home with me for Christmas, but knowing that she’s chosen me is surely the next best thing.

Now, back to dissertating at 35,000 feet.   Merry Christmas to all.

6 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , | posted in The Transition, Tween Parenting

December 9, 2013

Visitation Reflections

By AdoptiveBlackMom

It’s hard to believe that two weeks have passed and Hope’s visit with me has ended.  We’ve both got mixed emotions about this next part of our journey—waiting for paperwork.   She needs time to say goodbye, and I need time to “dissertate” and get the rest of our support team set up.  It’s a lot.  The therapists I’ve reached out to haven’t returned my calls.  There’s some additional room decorating that needs to happen.  And let’s not forget that I’ve got a mess of work to catch up on—including one journal article that needs to be revised in less than a week so I can meet the next deadline.

Hope and I have finally, in the last few days, settled into a delightful kind of normal.  There’s a comfort with each other; there are really challenging moments but we’re in a good place as we head back to the West Coast.  The last 4 days have been delightfully—gasp!—fun.  They’ve been a mom and her daughter just kicking it.   So, here’s my lessons/observations/whatever as I reflect on the last couple of weeks.

10.  Lots of things are just not that serious.

Sometimes Hope plays in the floor like she is a 5 year old.  Truth be told, I hate it, but really, I love hearing her giggle more than I hate it.  She’s laying in the floor, playing with the dog, she’s giggling, she’s being a kid.  She’s being a kid.

I want her to be a kid.  So, I just need to chillax and let some things just go.  It’s really not that serious.

There are way more parking lots in this life than in my previous single with no kid life.  I realize that I have a lot of single girl hang ups about food and space and exercise and clothes and… you name it.  In two weeks, I’ve learned I need to go into parking lot rehab.  Most of it is really just not that serious.

9. Timing is everything.

I’m growing accustomed to living my life in 20-30 minute increments.  Hope does not do well with sudden changes.  Sudden change equals life upheaval; so we need to avoid all of that.  Having been childless the ability to change my mind at a moment’s notice never affected anyone else.  I can’t live like that now.  In fact, I need to announce what the next day’s schedule is, remind her and set timers.  I never thought that my adoption registry for my upcoming shower would include a timer, but yeah, I need timers all over the place.

I use them to have a timekeeper for electronic screen time (in addition to parental apps).  I use them to say we need to be dressed to leave by a certain time.  I use them for everything!  Life is much more manageable with the timers.  Thank you Jesus for timers.

8. Speaking of Jesus…

I am Christian, but I’m not, nor have I ever been particularly preachy or proselytizing of my faith.  I don’t hide it, but for the most part, it’s one of the areas of my life that I tend to not talk about with folks other than close family and friends.   I mentioned in an earlier post that one of my mountains with Hope is my insistence that we go to church.  I don’t have an expectation that she necessarily join or that she even get *saved.*  I hope she comes to those choices, but they are choices.  Despite becoming a believer at 7 and being raised in the Baptist church, I can’t say I took my faith as bedrock until the last 10, maybe 15 years of my life.  And even then, I identify as a progressive, liberal Christian and ideologically, I am increasingly finding it hard to fit and to find a place where I fit.  The current Christian landscape in the US is kinda creepy to me.

Anyhoo, Hope asked me about being saved and baptism and just some basic theological questions that at her age I took for granted because I had always been around the Christian church.  I was delighted by her questions because I could explain things with ease and confidence and the moment lived up to visions I’d had in my head about spending time with my daughter through this particular lens.

Church was great (you know when that message is really YOUR message—yeah, today was that sermon) and I cried because I was just so happy with my life—the ups, the downs, this amazing kid sitting next to me and the blind and nearly deaf dog we have at home.

I don’t know if Christianity is for everyone; I know that I do my own thing and have found a church that works for me.  I will say that whatever your faith, this adoption thing is a beast and I know that you have to lean into whatever it is you believe in.  You will need to lean in hard, dang near perpendicular!  The grounding in something beyond yourself, something supernatural, is necessary.   One of the things the speaker reminded the congregation about this morning:  faith is not grown on the best days; it’s grown on the worst.   If you’re traveling this path, you need to believe in something.   Jesus happens to be my homeboy; he might be a good homeboy for you too.

And that’s pretty much my annual quota of religious proselytizing.   <shrug>

7.  Mountains are worth the effort.

The great Dr. Seuss 10pm bedtime standoff from last week was clearly our turning point.  OMG!!  I am still so proud of myself for standing my ground, clicking the lights and hunkering down in that power struggle.  I’m most proud that once she caved and went to bed that I was able to go in, kiss her good night and tell her I loved her.  We haven’t had a serious bedtime issue or major meltdown since.

I’m a natural stubborn debater.  I like to be right.   I like to win.  I’m reminded with Hope that the need for humble grace after having won is really what makes you hit the summit of the mountain.  It’s not about winning the power struggle, it’s about loving after the struggle is over.

6. Physical touch is healing.

Hope has some issues with being touched in certain ways.  Fortunately she can’t seem to get enough of hugs.  I hug her and kiss her forehead 50 times during the course of a day, even when she is being a real pill.  Midweek she just really started spontaneously hugging me on her own.  We held hands in church.  She kisses my cheek.  This physical affection is so meaningful for both of us.  It heals what’s ailing us, even if it’s a temporary salvo right now.  I’m going to miss hugging her for the next couple of weeks.  The Furry One is going to get hugged a lot more as a result.   We humans need physical touch.

5.  I’m a little worried about going back to work. 

For the first time in years, my focus is completely devoted to something else in my life.  This new identity business is really a BFD!  I’ve got a mess of stuff going on and I know that people will have the same expectations of me as they did before, but 1) I don’t really have a desire to work the way I did pre-Hope, at least not right now; 2) I don’t care about being defined by my professional identity right now.  I know it will all shake out in time.  I’m near the top of my own personal professional game right now.  I have a job that I love; one that I thought I’d have a hard time walking away from ever.  Today, well, hmmmm, I could.

I guess like I have to figure out what Hope’s and my normal will be, normal will also have to be redefined in my professional life too.

4.  This culture undermines parents. 

I can only imagine and apologize for some of the utterly silly things I may have said to the folks around me who are parents over the years.  Please forgive me. It really is pervasive though.

In the last two weeks I have had folks attempt to shame me for some of the early decisions I’ve made concerning how I intend to raise my daughter.

Do you think it’s wise to force her to go to church?

She really should have a cell phone; I don’t think you’re being realistic, everyone’s doing it.

Oh hot chocolate?  You know, she would probably be fine with decaf coffee.

Oh, this is the light stuff.  Everyone has an opinion, but so few bother to filter them or think about how they affect conversations that should happen at home.  Most things are innocuous, but, ugh…let’s just say, I had no idea how challenging this culture is with respect to raising a kid.  In my happily single, childless haze, I just had no idea that my big mouthed ideas should probably be left to myself.

Noted.

3. Kathryn Purvis is changing my life.

About a month ago, I finally picked up Purvis’ book The Connected Child.  I’m still wondering why no one at my agency recommended this book to me as I was wading the paperwork.  A few chapters in and it just made sense.  I tried to use it to help educate my family about things to expect with Hope.  There’s a great website (http://empoweredtoconnect.org/) and a Youtube channel with short videos as well.  I’ve got to practice the techniques more diligently, but Purvis’ work is extraordinary and will have a meaningful impact on me and Hope.

I’ve read several books and scanned a dozen more on adoption and older child adoption topics; The Connected Child seemed to provide me one stop shopping for information and resources.

2. I’m still in paperwork hell.

All I want for Christmas is Hope.

Whether Hope and I get each other for Christmas is dependent on the ICPC paperwork being completed in the next 15 calendar days, 11 business days.

Waiting still sucks.

1. Happiness is a by-product.

Last week Hope told Grammy that my job was to make her happy.  Grammy corrected her and told her that my job was to make sure was safe, had what she needed and loved her in healthy affirming ways.  The result of my doing these things is her being happy.  This was a great lesson.  Lots of people chase happiness, but don’t chase given their life meaning.  The latter is what ultimately will bring you much closer to your desired state.

Hope coming into my life has made me very, very happy.

Tomorrow I head back East for a long day of travel and possibly several weeks of waiting.  It’s all good though, I’m happy!

3 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Lessons Learned, The Adoption Process, The Transition

December 2, 2013

Hope & Whole Self Love

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Hope doesn’t like her hair; she says it’s too short and too nappy.

She doesn’t like her nose; she says it’s too broad. 

She doesn’t like to smile with her teeth showing; she says it makes her lips look too big and her teeth are crooked.

Hope says her cocoa brown skin is too dark; she wishes she were lighter.

Hope is enamored by lighter skinned women of color who have looser, wavy curls.  She says they are pretty.  She is not light, and her hair has tight curls, so she’s not pretty. 

She says she’s ugly several times a day.

Sure, some of the critical, self-doubt is normal for kids her age, but I fret that she hasn’t heard how beautiful she is much during her short time in this life.  Her smooth skin is such a lovely brown shade.  She has beautiful features that would look so lovely with long or short hair.  She could rock a teeny, weeny afro and look divine.  Her large almond shaped, brown eyes are so gorgeous.   Her full lips give her such a beautiful countenance. 

She doesn’t need to be light, and she shouldn’t want to be either.  

One of my goals during this visit is to make sure she sees the variety of women of color in the DC area.  I point out beautiful afros and dark skin and say, “Wow look at how pretty she is; she reminds me of you.”  I encourage her to moisturize her lovely skin (she seriously will allow herself to develop scales) so that it glistens and shines like a cocoa bean.

There’s something particularly painful to me to hear her say she doesn’t like the features that are most associated with people of color.  Such features often are a part of our core racial identity.  I had parents who told me all the time how pretty I was.  My dad still does.  He liked my hair relaxed, and he likes it natural.  Honestly I don’t know if he really likes either of them, but he has always, always told me that I was pretty.   He has always said my brown skin was beautiful.   I might’ve had lots of problems with self-esteem over the years, but loving my brown skin, African American features, and various hair stages has never been a part of my low self-esteem story.

When I got to college I met girls who really struggled with developing into young women of color.  They did all kinds of things to appear lighter (whiter) in every way—skin, hair, some plastic surgery.  It was so….extra.  The self-hate was so real, and it was deeper than just this awkward discomfort of adolescence.  Hating the skin you’re in is bad, so bad.  It’s bad on a good day.  I don’t want to imagine what it’s like to be an awkward tween, who’s been bustled around foster homes, who’s experienced all kinds of crazy ish, and to hate your brown skin and kinky hair on top of everything else.  It makes me sad.

So, I will continue wearing my hair natural; I may even cut it low for her.  I will try to take care of my skin.  I will point out other naturalistas.  I will show her all the colors, all the textures, all the diversity that the African diaspora has to offer.   I will tell her she’s beautiful.  I will get her cute brown girl T-shirts.  I will take her to events that affirm her existence as she is.  I will hold her hand as I lead Hope to a healing place on this issue and many others.  I will promote whole self-love as much as I can.  For me, this is a real part of the ABM journey. 

6 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in Uncategorized

November 29, 2013

Day 7: Top Seven

By AdoptiveBlackMom

During the course of writing this post, things hit an upswing.  I’m not where I want to be emotionally, but I’m better than where I was.

We survived Thanksgiving with only a few wounds, though I think mine seem worse than hers.  I cooked the family turkey.  We only ate about half of it, so I brought it back home.  I dropped it in the hallway right at the door to my condo.  I cried and cried and Hope stepped up and comforted me.  Nice, especially since she had been a holy terror most of the day.

Today, she’s been with me 7 days.  So here are my observations, lessons, journey-woman musings.  Oh and in honor of the number of completion, there are 7.

7.  It’s hard not to take her behaviors personally.

Ok, I need something much harder than this tough candy shell, because it’s not going to protect my feelings at all.  She says really mean things within minutes of any extension of kindness.  And it’s always my fault.  She’s quick to remind me how sensitive she is, but there is rarely a hint of compassion for me.  I mean, I’ve seen it, but wow… it was triggered by my dropping a turkey and crying in the hallway.

I know as the grown up that I’m supposed to keep it together, but dang, I’m pretty sensitive too.  It’s just me, Hope and the Furry One up in this house, and you know what?  Ish really got real the last couple of days.  I know that it’s probably a good sign, but I really have been hurt the last couple of days, just really hurt.  I need to develop whatever emotional armor I need to raise this kid with a quickness, otherwise I’ll be crying myself to sleep for a good while yet.

As I write this, I’m trying to recover from a personal meltdown. Yeah, she’s raising a racket in her room, while supposedly doing homework.  I know its self soothing behaviors; I know I should go comfort her in some way.  But I just don’t have it in me right at this moment.  Maybe in 30 minutes; maybe 40…

6. Jedi mind tricks and “call your bluffs” work.

Thanksgiving dinner was a challenge, what with an attention-starved, hunger striking tween in play.  The family was on high alert to be gentle and give her space.  I was prepared to take her home to protect her from being overwhelmed.  What actually happened was that she acted like a first class brat at various intervals when she didn’t feel she was the pedestal hogging center of attention, because to hear her tell it, “Everyone always loves me and always wants to be around me.”  With a big rowdy family everyone gets bits of attention here and there.  Dinner is a chaotic, laughter-filled food fest with a dozen people or more talking at the same time.  No one is the center of attention, though had she joined us for dinner, she might’ve been.   Instead the hunger strike persisted.

Having attempted many attention grabbing hunger strikes in my teen years, only to be comforted by one Auntie who was trying not to undermine me in this scenario, I told her we would head home in a specified amount of time (soon) and it was too bad she wasn’t hungry since there was so much good food around.  She was upstairs in a flash.

Today while shopping with the favorite cousin and the cousin’s friend, my attention seeker’s pedestal was not high enough, so a faux, but oh so dramatic, spontaneous ear ache/infection came on.  She whined that she wanted to go home.  So I made arrangements for the cousin and friend to stay at the mall, and announced our immediate departure.  It was like she touched the hem of Jesus’ garment — instantaneous healing, since she hadn’t played out her deadly ear infection scam as including leaving the presence of two supa-fly 16 year olds.

And home we went, despite all protestations of healing.

Boom.

5. She’s manipulative, and she knows it clap your hands.  Clap, clap.

On the way home she said, “It is sad that I get sick whenever we are about to do something you want to do.”  Yeah, the next mall stop was Old Navy, where she knew I’d wanted to go all day.  Her sudden, life threatening ear infection (that also affected the very ability to swallow) killed that trip.

Oh the shade of it all.  If you could’ve seen the side eye I gave this tween in my head!  My Lord, my Lord…smh.

And yeah, the illnesses only strike when its something I have initiated or expressed an interest in doing.

She catches stomach aches, ear aches, foot cramps, you name it, she gets it.  I’m surprised she hasn’t claimed a flesh eating disease yet.  I shared this with one of my cousins this morning.  We are a robust family, but almost all of us has a serious, chronic ailment that could usher us out of here. MDs are like family around these parts.  Keep on playing, Hope, and you’ll be at my GI doc’s office scheduling an endoscopy to see what’s really going on in your tummy with all these stomach aches.

I know that it’s about anxiety (10-20%) and attention-seeking (80-90%), but she is so shady about it.

4. Hope is so tall that its easy to forget she’s only 12, and emotionally more like 9 or 10….

…until she opens her mouth and says something so ridiculous.  It’s exhausting following her because she is all over the place. Part of it is age, part stunted development.  She can go from trying to act older down to a 5 year old within the same sentence.  When she’s happy she giggles and the little girl within emerges–she’s charming and adorable.   But then there’s all this other stuff.  She looks young in the face but she’s tall and developed and well, it’s sometimes hard to remember, she’s only 12, has been to hell and back and I need to lower expectations for behaviors.

I’m really conscious of this when we are out and about because I see the higher/older expectations people have of her.  It’s tough being so tall at such a young age.

3. Tweens are kinda (really) obnoxious.

Holy cow.  I already knew tweens were obnoxious, but most of the tweens I know or have known, I’ve known since they were infants.  It’s off-putting when your new tween seems to think you only moved to civilization to adopt her.

“Ugh, your cable is bad.  You really need to get the kind of cable we have back home.  This tv doesn’t get any real channels.”

“Nope, the cable isn’t bad.  The cable in your room is intentionally bad since you don’t need access to some of those other channels. The cable is great in the other parts of the house.”

“Have you heard of Robin Thicke?  He’s a singer; his CD is really good.  You should get it.  Do they sell here?”

“Robin Thicke has been around since you were an angel on the gatepost of heaven.  Yeah, I have his CD; I have all of his CDs.  Virginia is not like living on the moon, though Amazon Prime might deliver there.”

“This condo-hotel you have isn’t all that good.  We should rent a new place.” (The condo building has experienced some untimely water issues this week.)

“I live here.  I own this space.  It’s not a hotel.  We are not renting a new place.  Stuff happens and you deal.”

And if I hear Gaga’s Applause one more time, I’m going to lose it.  I finally had to school her on lyrics while at the mall since she insisted on giving a concert of the song, over and frigging over.  There’s a line in the song where Gaga talks about being a Koons (the art dude), but Hope kept screeching what sounded like Koonts, which in turn sounded like a gross mispronunciation of a gross c*nt.

Honestly it was hilarious, but I finally had to ask her to stop singing that line.

Yeah, obnoxious, but sometimes funny.

3. This happened:  Another mom discussion.

So after the drama that was Thanksgiving  dinner with the family and before I accidentally dumped the turkey in the hallway in front of my condo door, Hope once again broached the issue of what to call me.  She’s been grappling with this for a couple of months now.  She says calling me mom is weird.  She does everything but call me mom.  She describes me as mom; she tells her friends I’m her mom.   I’m her mom.

But I get why she struggles with this.  She hasn’t had a mom.  She says its weird to call me that.  In the last 24 hours she has regressed to call me by Foster Mom’s name, so I know it’s really weighing on her.  I’m reassuring her that it is ok with me; I’m ok with not having the title even if I would love to have it.  The fact that she’s given me that title with everyone else is enough for me.

I do hope it happens, though.

1. Hope told me she loved me.  

In the midst of what feels like one of the upper, not quite so hot, rings of hell this week, Hope said she loved me.  Even in my frustration and tears, it was shocking and sweet and wonderful.  It is ironic that it comes during the most challenging time, but I guess that’s the point.  I’m doing ok by her.  She knows I’m here to stay. It will eventually get better, even if I know it will get worse before it does.

Oh, hello obscenely full tumbler glass of blush vinho verde, how you doin’ tonight???

2 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Lessons Learned, The Transition, Tween Parenting

November 27, 2013

Day 4: Top Five

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Yesterday was a bit of a doozy for me, seemingly less so for her.  In all it was a very good day, but as a newbie parent of an older child, I struggled.  Here’s what I learned on Day 4.

5.  If you are a drinker, you will finish the bottle of wine after the kid goes to bed.

Yeah, you will.  Don’t even think you won’t, no sense in lying to yourself.   We went to the museum of natural history today; Hope is very tactile and very curious.  I realized that she’s also fairly well read today as well.  I get overstimulated at museums, but taking your kid to a museum seems to be a good, worthwhile endeavor, right?  We spent 4.5 blasted hours in the museum.  4.5!!!!!!!!!!!!  I’m telling you if they sold booze, I would’ve bellied up to the bar and ordered a $30 rail drink.  I was so desperate for an adult beverage; that it could’ve been a no shelf kinda drink.

When I got home, I killed the last 3rd of that bottle of $2 buck Chuck Beaujolais while she did homework in her room.  Yeah, I did.

4.  Your game face must be strong because the lying is persistent.

Seriously, there are little lies like, “I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to eat all of the gummy multivitamins you bought me two days ago.”   There are whopper lies like, “I rode an elephant bear back one time.”   As long as the lies aren’t pointing to a safety issue, you just can’t even bother with a strong reaction.  At least I try not to bother.  I just click my head to the side and with a bit of sarcasm in the voice go, “Really? Oh, ok.”

Sometimes you really just can’t tell whether the kiddo is lying or not.  For instance, yesterday Hope told me that several friends (aged 12-13) smoke pot on a regular basis and come to school high.  I pray this is a lie, but honestly I have no way of knowing.  I remember in back in the day (also 7th grade) I bought a peach Jolly Rancher stick, and Chris Tucker, a boy I liked at the time said my breath smelled like weed after I smoked it.  I’d never knowingly smelled weed, so I took his word for it and started buying a different flavor.    After I was good and grown I smoked a bit of pot in my day.  Yeah, peach Jolly Ranchers don’t smell at all like weed.   Of course kids today get exposed to so much more than I ever was in my time.

Of course there is a cumulative effect of all this lying and other accompanying behaviors takes their toll, which leads me to #3.

3. Some meltdowns are completely unpredictable, and it could be the kid melting or it could be you melting.  

I will cop to having two moments where I barely held onto my sanity and had mini-breaks yesterday.  Patience is one of the virtues I’ve been working on for more than a decade.  Hope brings new sets of triggers that I didn’t know existed.  Most of them I can handle, but cumulatively…oy vey.  There is a word that I have decided that we will not use in our home; we’ve been working on not using this word since I was in Seattle.  Her new tactic for using the word is to add the word, “LIKE” in front of it.  She repeatedly used it during a conversation as we were driving to the metro station yesterday.  When I initially corrected her, she said, “Well I didn’t actually say that such and such was stupid (<<<<the word I have banned because of excessive and mean usage), I said such and such was LIKE stupid.”  She then grinned at her cleverness.

Sigh.

We went back and forth on this for about 90 seconds while in the parking garage, until I hit the brakes, put the car in neutral, pulled the hand-break, and spoke my peace and ended the discussion.  I immediately regretted having a “Don’t make me stop this car” moment without warning.  It startled her and scared her a bit and she went into sad/mad/quiet mode.   The good news is that our sad/mad/quiet modes (both of ours) are shortening.  We recover, we talk about and we move on.

2. Do something to take care of yourself

Self-care is essential and I’m not just talking about the booze.  I’m letting her sleep an extra hour this morning so that I can have a little extra me time.  I drug myself out of bed and exercised.  After the first 10 minutes I could tell my mood was lifted and my tank was getting filled.  Today I’ll focus on getting and staying hydrated.

I really need to prep a speech I have to make next week and I really need to work on my dissertation.  I’ll set 20 minute goals for those tasks today.  Twenty minutes is better than no minutes.  The point is, that although life is changing so dramatically, there are still things I need to do for myself.  They make me feel good; they help me maintain a separate identity from “Mom;” they keep me sane.

1. Enjoy the random.

In the midst of my museum induced misery, Hope just came over and hugged me.  She didn’t verbally say anything; she just hugged me.  That hug said everything.  It is why I was able to endure the museum.  It was amazing and loving and sweet and just a little Hope Diamond of perfection.  I know she is sad about leaving her friends and everything she’s ever known on the other side of the country, but she’s ok here.  She cares about me.  She’s growing to trust me.  She’s digging it.

Things aren’t bad at all.  There is a time when they may get bad for us, but she does care and she knows I care.  The random hug is better than words.  There’s something about touch that is more meaningful, more intimate.

Life is good as long as there’s wine.  🙂

1 Comment   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Lessons Learned, The Transition, Tween Parenting

November 26, 2013

Day Three: Top Five

By AdoptiveBlackMom

Things I’ve learned about my older child and older child adoption on Day 3.

 5.  Older kids have probably missed a lot of their childhood.

My own parents were often criticized as being too strict.  My sisters and I didn’t go to rated R movies, we didn’t have cable, we focused on school and activities and we were shielded from so much.  My sisters and I got to be little girls.  Hope seems to rarely have had a chance to be a little girl, and to some degree trying to impose a bit of little girlness in her life is like putting a genie back in a bottle.

The truth of the matter is that she has likely seen a lot more than I’ve seen in my 40 years.   She’s annoyed that I won’t let her see certain things, say certain things, do certain things.  She’s 12.  She’s not a grown up, she doesn’t have to be a grown up.  She can still be a little girl with some help.

4. The ego is frail.

I think all of our egos are frail.  But I especially think that our older adopted kids’ egos are so very fragile.  When it occurred to me yesterday, we were playing Wii.  She talked MAD ish about how she was going to whoop me.  Whatever.  She won the first game, and then I smoked her on the next three.  The sulking started and was headed to a full on cry when I just essentially stopped playing.  I stood there though the next 4 Michael Jackson songs, barely lifting my arms until we were far enough in the song that I knew I couldn’t win.

Let me explain why it’s more than ego in number 3.

3. Depression and low self-esteem is serious for these kids.

My heart broke several times during the day when Hope called herself ugly.  She said she wasn’t smart.  She said no one before her had really wanted her.  Her self-worth is so low.  Can you imagine such a life that you woke up one day and you ended up in the custody of the state and you bounced around for a couple of years, hoping someone will want to adopt you?  It makes me cry just thinking about it.  How can you not be depressed with low self-esteem under those circumstances?

It’s going to take a more than a few days to help her overcome all of this.  Protecting her fragile ego by not smoking her on Remember the Time is a small thing I have to do to help.

2. Tweens actually believe stuff in tabloids and on the internet.

This isn’t exactly limited to older adopted kids, but I do think that the desire to dive into the alternative reality offered in the tabs and on the internet allows them to practice a type of escapism.  The stories I had to hear about Justin, One Direction, the Kardashians and other tween idols were so utterly ridiculous.   It also requires a lot of patience to listen and not counter the narrative too much, because it’s really just a pain in the butt to grapple with.  Tween logic—I’m sure all tweens—just makes it that much more difficult to help parse reality from reality tv.  I’m struggling to help her get accustomed to her new reality.  She won’t marry Bruno Mars, but she will have a good life just the same.

1. Older kids are exhausting. 

So… people talk about the whole infant brigade.  I’ve seen the evidence that new parents can be walking zombies.  Parents of older kids must be faking it really well, because they seem to have it more together.

Dropping an older kid into your life is exhausting in a different way.  They don’t go down for naps.  They talk and talk and talk.  Bonding is so super awesome, but my brain starts slowing down in the afternoon.  My little night owl is just getting crunk.  I am so frigging tired.

I’m a serious extravert, but I still need that quiet time.  That quiet time is rare this week.  I know that I’ll have a bit more when we get settled into a routine with school and activities.  My car will be a sanctuary.  But in the meantime, all this bonding (which I’m not complaining about at all!) is emotionally and physically exhausting.   I found myself thinking, are you sure you don’t want to take a nap?  I think you should take a nap.

I want to take a nap.

In other news, The Furry One is clearly confused by the new addition.   He has taken to humping one of my slippers.  It is a new slipper.  It is a nice slipper.  It is a fluffy slipper.  Sigh.

2 Comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Lessons Learned, The Transition, Tween Parenting

November 25, 2013

Day Two: Top Five

By AdoptiveBlackMom

The top five things I realized today, Day 2 with Hope.

5. Hope is on the come up.

What, pray tell is the come up, you ask?  It’s when your socio-economic status rises or “comes up.”  I live a comfortable life.  I’m not rich and I dang sure am not wealthy.  I’m comfortable, and Hope will be comfortable.   But Hope thinks I’m rich, a notion I must disabuse her of, and that by adoption, she’s rich.  We’re e traveling a path where she asks for things because she’s testing me and because she wants to show off to her friends back home.

We endured an hour long power struggle during an outing today when she complained either that I wouldn’t buy her anything or that I wouldn’t buy her the things she really wanted.  Hope chose gaudy stuff that was either reminiscent of a rap video (think Run DMC chains) or the biggest bottle available of Justin Bieber’s Girlfriend perfume, even though she admitted she doesn’t really like to wear fragrance.    These things represent a level of affluence for her.  At one point, before attempting to stomp off in a huff, she said what was she supposed to tell her friends back in Washington?

Sigh…We will gently sort this out over time.

4. You haven’t lived until a 12 year old tries to convince you that the 13 year old she’s crushing has a hot body.

No, really this was the highlight of my day.  Had I known I could be having this kind of conversation with my daughter I might have had/adopted kids years ago.  So she’s telling me about some little boy she is digging, and she goes on to describe him and then stops short.  We’ve had these kinds of chats recently about boys; I’m careful not to overreact to her crush confabs.  We’ve been building some trust currency during these chats about boys so she’s increasingly forthcoming.

When she stopped, I probed.  “So…what is it?  He’s cute, pretty eyes, curly hair…Are light skinned brothas back in style?” She giggled and replied, “You’re close but not really…” “Oh, so we’re talking about his body, ok.  Spill the deets.”  “OMG when he takes his shirt off…(ABM’s internal alarm goes off:  when the hell have you been privy to seeing him disrobe???)…his chest….”   Oh, ok, so he’s got a nice body at 13???  Really?  “Yeah, he doesn’t look his age, he looks a little older.”

What, his birdcage chest looks 15?

Girl, bye!!!

Seriously, these conversations are both hilarious and enlightening.  I know that Hope will need vigilant supervision, but she can crush all she wants as long as she tells me.   I was only a little older than her when I fantasized that I was going to have Ralph Tresvant’s (New Edition) baby one day.

3. My girl misses her dad Every. Single. Day.

I’ve often told friends and family that I believe grief to be a horribly destructive emotion.  It’s such an amalgamation of so many other messy emotions—sadness, hurt, anger, loss…It’s just wicked.  I’ve heard stories about Hope’s dad that didn’t paint him in a very good light.  He’s gone now, but Hope has him up on an incredible pedestal.   He was her primary parent, and she adored him.  And then he was gone.  And people said bad things about him and said to get over it.  She hasn’t.  It’s going to take more time and a lot more maturity to get her to a place where she can really handle that loss in a healthy way.  She talks about him a lot, and I’m ok with that.  He isn’t a threat to me.  I don’t intend to try to make her stop missing him or to totally rewrite the history she’s constructed to help her remember him.  It is what it is.  It will take her time to get there.  Her grief makes me sad though.

2.  I know that she really doesn’t want to be pack leader, sulking notwithstanding.

For the most part, Hope is good about how we are constructing boundaries for her.   Since she’s out of school, we have designated school time.  There’s tablet time, which thanks to a nifty app shuts ish down!  We had an epic negotiation session over brunch about chores, allowance and behavioral expectations.  In short, Hope was happy with the boundaries as long as they were laid out, some things were negotiated and the consequences—both positive and negative–were clear.

That was fine until I the screen time app kicked her out of a game and she didn’t win her last game of solitaire before screen time expired and I ixnay’d hooking her DS to the house wifi.  And let me tell you, her sulking stomp game is strong.   The screen time combos sent her into a pout spiral on the couch.  She argued that she had not won one game of solitaire yet; I replied, well maybe tomorrow will fare better.  And she went all, “Mr. Gorbachev , tear down that wall” on me.  <blank stare>

Again, girl, bye.

She nearly went apoplectic when I said she would have to earn my trust in her on the internet post placement to get wifi access to the internet on her DS.  Internet access will be a relatively new thing for her, and I’m not interested seeing it abused.  Also, I know she is young and not too discerning about folks so she needs a heavy hand around the access issue.  Even if and when I said yes, I’d have to set it up to change the password daily in order for both of us to really make it work.

Whatever the scenario and ensuing meltdown, Hope longs to feel safe and secure.  She needs to know I care and that our extended family cares.  Being the boss is hard work that she really doesn’t want to do.  She wants to be a kid.  I’ll let her flex from time to time, but Mom’s the boss with ultimate veto power.  She don’t want none of this responsibility, not really.

1. I am so a morning person and Hope is not.  I know I will be the one to do the primary adapting.

And it’s ok.  No, really it is.  Change is good.  Reframing productivity and success is good.  There shouldn’t be any sob stories for my lost productivity or any whining about why Hope doesn’t like mornings.  Besides, did you really think I didn’t think my life would get turned upside down?

We are creatures of habit and preference.  Mine happen to be early to rise and conquer the world.  Hers happen to be rise around midday and world domination can wait until evening.  She is at her most active and most productive between the hours of 4 and 7pm.  I see it and I feel it. It is exhausting since I start winding down around 2pm; I am most productive between 5-10am.  But this is how she’s wired.

Some days I will learn to sit down more and some days she will be up with the proverbial chickens.  I’ll still get my before dawn workouts in and my morning quiet, reflection time.  I hope to get some writing done tomorrow morning before she gets up.  I look forward to adapting to a more lively afternoon life, when normally I’m winding down.  It’s really all good.

Oh there’s so much more I could write.  Stay tuned for an interesting hair focused post as she emotionally toys with wearing her hair out when she moves here permanently.  Just two days and seeing me with my hair and so many naturalistas walking around the DC area, and she’s thinking.   It’s good stuff.

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