Invasion of Privacy

It was bound to happen at some point in time. I guess we were lulled into a false sense of security because most people in our circle know the story about how we are a transracial family. But, with Chica Marie being a cheerleading with girls from other elementary schools in the district, we are an anomaly. After practice one night, while I was doing her hair after her bath, Chica Marie explained to me she was upset because another little girl interrogated her about having a white mommy. Chica Marie at first just said, “Yes, that’s my mommy but I came from my other mommy’s tummy.” She didn’t want to share anything more but the other little girl kept trying to pry information out of her until eventually Chica Marie caved to peer pressure. What upset her the most was how the other little girl turned right around and shared this information with the rest of the team, making Chica Marie feel out-of-place and singled out. And it broke my heart.

 

Often times, at school and at daycare, Chica Marie seems flippant about being adopted. I think, for the most part, everyone around her just kind of gets it because they were around for the finalization in April. The adults understand what occurred and can act as buffers for Chica Marie if some of the kids get too nosey. But, with new experiences and new people, her story is not known as it is with people already in the know. This makes her a curiosity. And no kid wants to stand out in a weird way, or be scrutinized because something about them is different. It is othering and uncomfortable. Not to mention her story comes with a lot of heartache and loss, not something she wants to just chit-chat about. So, I gently told Chica Marie she did not owe anyone her story, it was hers and she had the right to tell it or not tell it as she wants and when she wants. She responded, “But the girl kept asking me!” It distressed her that the other cheerleader wouldn’t just take the simple response and let it go. So, I developed a plan with Chica Marie, if that were to happen again, and I was there she would just need to come up to me and say our code word “Grilled cheese” and I would take care of it. If I wasn’t there, I instructed Chica Marie to go to a trusted adult and say, “This girl keeps asking me personal questions and I don’t want to answer them. Could you please ask her to stop?” Chica Marie felt this was a do-able plan. But, the hurt from the night was still fresh and raw. I asked her if she would like me to talk to the girl and her parents and she nodded. So, I will try to speak to them at the game on Saturday, in hopes that they will understand and be more sensitive going forward.

 

I don’t want Chica Marie to feel ashamed of her story or her adoption, but I also don’t want her to feel like she needs to tell everyone all about herself just because she is adopted. It isn’t easy to find that balance, but I am always open to talking to any of the children about it. Primero is very free with his story. Love Bug is really too young to know much about it, but he does sometimes declare, “I’m adopted. Right Mommy, I was adopted?” Chica Marie is somewhere in between her brothers. On the one hand she told a grocery store cashier about her impending adoption, but on the other she was upset about it being made into a big deal at cheerleading practice. The difference is probably in how the information was received. The insensitivity of the girl sharing very personal information like it was just gossip fodder was painful. Chica Marie did not ask to be adopted. It is something that happened to her and she had to endure the loss of her mother and original family to be meshed into another family. Adoption is not simple and should never be treated as such because it does such a disserve to all that happens in the process. Adoption is not a transaction, it is a loss. Yes, beauty can arise from those ashes, but only if all of the story is embraced, the happy and the sad.

 

Mostly, I hope Chica Marie is able to understand how to talk to pushy people because this girl may have been the first but she will not be the last person to demand to know intimate details of her life. I want the other family to understand we are just a regular family like any other. Yes, how we came to be a family might be different, but beyond that we are the same. And no one wants their greatest pain splashed before the world for criticism and critique. I also want Chica Marie to know I am always, always willing to go to bat for her; I am always willing to step in for her if she needs me. And she should never feel like she can’t talk to me about the painful parts of adoption. I might not understand it in the way she does, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try and it doesn’t mean I won’t be there to listen regardless. More than the boys do, I think Chica Marie is sensitive to how I might feel hearing she misses her mom or wishes she hadn’t been adopted or any of the other negative things about what has happened to her. I want her to know I can take it, I can listen with an open mind and heart and it won’t break me to hear it all. I hope someday she will trust me with it all. In the meantime, I have a date with a certain cheerleader.   

Messy Triad

 Earlier in the day on Sunday, Primero received a call from his mom. She was having trouble breathing and, from what I gather, wanted him to pick her up and take her to the hospital. Only, we were out looking for bedding and curtains for my bedroom. So, he suggested she call his older brother Mr J. Later, after returning home and eating dinner, Primero and I were painting the ceiling in my bedroom when his mom called to video chat. I was annoyed because we were busy and didn’t need an interruption, but Primero continued on with the task at hand. His mom, between coughing fits and berating the nursing staff, directed Primero on how to paint. At one point, the angel of the phone allowed her to see into my closet and of course she commented on all the shoes I have. It irritated me because it felt like an invasion of my privacy. I gritted my teeth and kept working. A few minutes later, Primero and I were giggling about something he said or did (I honestly don’t remember) and his mom abruptly ended the call. I suggested the call got dropped or perhaps a doctor had entered the room to talk to her. Primero didn’t think that was the case and his suspicions were later confirmed when his mom text him, “I didn’t want to interrupt family time.”

“It seems seeing us getting along made her feel some type of way,” Primero told me. I scoffed at the sentiment, “I didn’t know painting the ceiling was family time.” And make some other comment about her judgment on the amount of shoes I own (of which she only saw a fraction).  Primero then got upset and said he couldn’t bother with either one of us because we always got upset about something. Luckily, his mom was discharged from the hospital later that evening. Her asthma and smoking seemed to aggravate the bronchitis she didn’t know she had and so with a breathing treatment and some antibiotics she would be fine. As for the messy triad we represent, there’s lots of room for improvement….

Imperfect Perfectionism

This past weekend I painted my bedroom. It sounds like a minor thing, but my bedroom was the only room in the house that has never been painted. My ex-husband painted our bathroom, living room, kitchen and what is now Chica Marie’s bedroom but we could never agree on a color for our bedroom. So, it stayed white. Even after he left, I didn’t paint it. I’m not sure why I didn’t, I just never made it a priority. I lived with the primer white walls for a long time; twelve years to be exact. So, after completing the bathroom project I was anxious to begin painting my bedroom. I chose a plum-mauve purple color, moved things out of my room, taped around the ceiling and trim and painted all day on Saturday. I completed the job the same day and was mostly content with how it looked. I’m not the greatest painter and a lot of the tape was not straight so the lines are not crisp as I would like them to be and my perfectionism reared it’s ugly head. I am displeased with how my room turned out because when I look at it all I see are my mistakes. The issue is compounded by not being able to find new bedding and curtains to my liking, so the room is unfinished. As if that wasn’t enough, I asked Primero to help paint the ceiling because I could not reach it and well, he didn’t take the same care I would have while painting so some of my furniture has new white freckles and there are unpainted spots on the ceiling. He also managed to get white smudges on the newly painted walls in various places. The whole thing makes me cringe, to be honest. My perfectionism rearing it’s ugly head. I keep trying to tell myself it’s a work in progress, that all the things I see as mistakes and errors can be fixed. I’m just not so sure I have the ability to fix things. Maybe if I use a ruler instead of the stupid tape? A smaller brush and get a ladder that makes reaching the ceiling easier? I don’t know. I’m just massively disappointed at the moment because the picture in my mind’s eye is not coming to fruition. Mostly, I wish I had just let it go. White walls aren’t all that bad, right?  

Not My Child

One of my coworkers recently enrolled her three year old daughter in daycare for the first time. Previously, her daughter had been cared for by family members and was the only young child in their care. Since starting daycare, her daughter has been bitten twice. Both times she complained loudly to other coworkers about how upset she was and how the daycare shouldn’t let that happen and should be more strict with the children, etc. My blood boils as I listen to her act like her daughter is a little saint and the other children must be devilish heathens to have bitten her innocent angel. First of all, toddlers bite. It’s kind of their thing. Second of all, you were not there and you do not know what instigated the incident. No, your child should not be bitten but I highly doubt she is being “targeted” as this mother insists. This is her only child and she does not have plans to have another, so maybe she does not realize how common it is for young children to bite one another. It’s a way of communicating that adults need to monitor and intervene, but it is not generally vindictive. This morning I overheard this mother proudly telling other coworkers that she told her daughter to scream and push the child away before she is bitten again. There is probably some underlying issue going on, but this mom is not interested in learning that dynamic. She just wants to villainize the other child and make sure her daughter never has any negative interactions. I’m not condoning biting, but Love Bug had a few biting incidents in daycare because his verbal skills were lacking. He needed to be taught words to use instead of using his teeth. I would have been very upset if I had overheard this couple’s berating the daycare because my evil child was targeting their perfect daughter.

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Cash Cow

Years ago I remember reading on an adoption online forum about an adoptive couple struggling with defining boundaries to their child’s mother regarding financial assistance. This was after the adoption so there wasn’t any legal counsel or adoption agency negotiating on their behalf, it was just the couple trying to figure out how to help. I read it with a leery eye, thinking it wasn’t the adoptive couple’s responsibility to financially support their child’s mother. It’s easy to say that from an outside perspective yet, when the shoe is on the other foot the gray areas become apparent.

 

Last spring I discovered via a Facebook post, that Primero’s aunt’s cousin lost everything in a house fire. The post asked if anyone had girls’ clothing and it just so happened I did. So, I agreed to take the clothes to his aunt’s place. It was the first time she and I met in person. We had been friends on Facebook and spoke via messenger for quite some time, but we never met in person. About a month after I dropped off the clothing his aunt contacted me stating she needed to take her daughter to a hospital over an hour away. They would ride the bus because she doesn’t drive and doesn’t have a car. The trip would take all day because of the bus schedule. She was in a panic because, after paying for the bus fare, she had no money to buy them lunch. Could I, would I lend her $20 so they could eat? Sure. I mean, it’s only $20 and it would be such a long, long day with no lunch. I dropped the money off and she was grateful. Little did I know, my willingness to help her out would snowball.

 

The $20 I loaned her soon ballooned to $60 and  pack of cigarettes (I don’t smoke) and still she kept asking for handouts and an ever increasing pace. The last time I gave her money was when we were giving her and her daughter a ride to the local hospital. And I refused to stop and buy her cigarettes as well. Not long after that we had a plumbing issue. I asked her for the loaned money back and she claimed to not have it. I let it go, but refuse to give her any more money. Don’t loan what you can’t afford to lose, right?

 

I know certain members of Primero’s family see me as rich because I have a home and nice things. But, we pinch pennies and I do mathematic acrobatics to keep us going. Are we better off than some of them? Yes, we are. But, I cannot support us and everyone else as well. Yesterday Primero text me because his oldest brother, Mr J, had asked to borrow money. I didn’t have it to lend so I had to say no, but it’s hard being seen as a cash cow (I don’t think his brother sees me this way, but other family members do) especially when the reality is that we struggle to get the things we have.

Sleeping Alone

My cousin’s wife posted on Facebook seeking advice to get her 10 month daughter to sleep in her own crib and not their bed. She made the mistake of allowing her daughter into her bed and is now struggling to get her back out. I joked with her to share the advice with me because my four year old Love Bug still sleeps with me every night. Long ago I gave up on convincing him to stay in his own bed. He slept in his own bed in my bedroom for three years. It didn’t matter, he still woke up and climbed into my bed. I thought moving him to a different room would discourage his nightly migration, but it has not. He likes snuggling when he sleeps. He won’t fall asleep unless I lay next to him. He views my bed as his own. I know, at some point in time, he will stop wanting to sleep in my bed and stay in his own. I joked, in my Facebook post, I will remember this time when he is a teenager and hates me. I think my Love Bug just needs the comfort of feeling someone sleeping next to him. He reaches out in his sleep, to feel for me, to grab my arm or my hand and pull it towards himself. He likes to sleep on my arm or my hand or sometimes lying totally on top of me, his head resting on my chest.

 

Others suggested the cry it out method on their response to the above post. There was one time, when he was about 10 months old, I tried to let Love Bug cry it out. It was the fourth time he woke up in the night, just before dusk. I was exhausted and wanted just a few more minutes of sleep. I tried to calm him down and then I left, but he would not be placated, he wanted to be with me. Still, I kept insisting he learn to sleep alone. This went on for what felt like days, but was probably only 30 minutes. In the end, I did not get anymore sleep, instead I had a very nervous and upset Love Bug who took a long time to settle down and release his vice-grip on my neck. In other words, I only made him more hyperviligent about waiting for me to leave him alone in his bed. I’m sure someone could tell me I didn’t do it right, but for this little guy there was no crying it out. He needed to feel safe and if that meant being with me, in my bed, then so be it. I think once he was 18 months old I gave up trying to let him fall asleep in my bed and then move him back to his bed. He would always come back and it just made me tired and grumpy. Technically, the foster care rules do not allow children to sleep with their foster parents. That just didn’t work for my little boy. I guess it’s a good thing I’m single, because Love Bug needs that space in my bed. I believe, like so many things when it comes to parenting, each family and even each child within the same family, will make choices for what is right for them to meet their unique individual needs. I won’t say I was a big proponent either way, but I have definitely softened on co-sleeping.

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Awkwardness

Open adoption does not get easier with time, you just adjust to living with the discomfort and awkwardness it brings into your life. Maybe not every adoptive parent feels this way, but I do. It isn’t easy for me to constantly set aside my own desires, my comfort and personal preference to be the bigger person and not selfishly isolate. It is hard to remain open to and with someone who you don’t share many or any of the same beliefs or moral codes or have anything but one very important person in common. I try to be gracious but I don’t think I always am. I try to be understanding but it gets tiring to see someone continually follow the same damaging pattern. I try to remain open but sometimes I just don’t want to do it anymore. Yet, I do. I am committed to open adoption even when it causes me to feel a lot of stress.

 

Last night, I had just laid down with Love Bug to get him to sleep when Primero popped into the room. His mom, who had been staying in town to be near her ailing father who signed himself out of the hospital Wednesday night, wasn’t getting along with people where she was staying and she needed a place to go. Story of her life. So, of course she calls Primero. He picked her up and brought her to our house. I told him she would need to leave the house when we did the next morning and that he couldn’t stay up all night, he needed to sleep to be ready for school. The three of us sat awkwardly in the living room trying to watch the first episode of American Horror Story, which his mom talked over so I missed key points. I don’t actually care because I don’t like the gruesome show, I only watch it with Primero to give us something to do together. Still, it bugs me to miss salient parts that I know will reappear. When I text Primero about his mom talking and me missing things, he got defensive. Never mind I had to sit in my own living room and hear him call her Mom a thousand times while my soul died, I can’t express annoyance at someone talking over a show.

 

And that’s the rub, I suppose. Primero shows obvious deferential treatment to his mom while I get his contempt and I’ll-do-what-I-want attitude. He likes coming to his mother’s rescue, but even he complained that she was ungrateful because she mentioned numerous times to Esperanza in their telephone conversation (one they would not have in front of me because I’m not privy to the going-on’s of the family) that she shouldn’t have come. To me, she said more than one thing to ruffle my feathers. Not that they weren’t already slightly askew just due to her presence, but she has a way with back-handed compliments. First, she chided me on allowing Primero to bring “people” into the house that then turn around and disrespect me. But, apparently she wasn’t “people” and neither was Esperanza. She chastised me for having too many kids, counting the animals as children. She birthed 6 children, but 3 are too many for me.  This morning she commented, “this house is just so tiny!” to which my mouth almost responded, “it’s bigger than your place.” Because she has no place of her own.

 

Primero and I got into a tiff this morning because he was going to stay home until 8:30 since that was when his mother’s ride could pick her up. He got incredibly angry with me when I suggested she find a place outside to wait, stating I was being rude and I wouldn’t treat my only family that way. Only, I would. If I said you needed to leave when I leave then that is what I meant. And, Primero has already had 4 tardy’s from school and it’s only the 4^th week of school, two of those weeks being abbreviated for Labor Day. So, no, I didn’t want him going into school late. Again. He refused to see this as a pattern or habit and insists being late does not affect his academic performance. So, in addition to all the above, I get to be the bad guy and force him to go to school on time.

 

If you are sitting there wondering why I do this, I am sitting here thinking the same thing. It isn’t fun, I don’t like it. I suppose I would tell you I do it for Primero. And, a part of me does feel bad for his mom. Her life is not enviable. Maybe it’s guilt because I have her child in my home? Perhaps it’s a false sense of responsibility. The bottom line is I’m just plain dumb. My kindness is repaid in issues and passive-aggressive comments. It’s probably a good thing I don’t have a bigger house or I might be stuck with more unwanted guests on a regular basis.