Our Mighty Dream

Langston Hughes wrote, in part:

"Let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again."


Our mighty dream is back. My brown child can see other brown children playing with their puppy on the White House lawn. America's children will see a black man as president and it'll be no big deal. Our children will remember being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night because this is That Important; when they're older they'll understand its importance.

Breathing again

It's 10am and Mr. Handsome is still employed! Unfortunately, three of his direct-reports aren't. One of them was called at home last night so he wouldn't have to come in at all today. Everyone is breathing easier over that fact.

I, of course, had a major nightmare last night in which the employee came to our house and held me hostage all day. Mr. Handsome suggested I not be at home at all today, which would be fine except for the fact that the painters are beginning this morning and I need to be here for them. Maybe it's best the house is crawling with men today!

Nonethless, my husband still has a job, for which I'm thankful. We can breath again. For today, anyway.

***Update***

The engineer of concern left a voicemail on Mr. Handsome's machine at work promising not to do "anything stupid." It's all been quiet over there, and he was good about calling me every once in a while to let me know everything was ok.

Stretching

I'm pretty tightly wound in a lot of ways. I'm a perfectionist. I'll research any subject within an inch of its life. I relish the minutiae of the obscure . If there's an odd fact to be recalled, I'm your girl. I read a lot and I know a lot of weird stuff.

My daughter, on the other hand, ain't. I've been practicing my deep cleansing mommy breaths lately as BabyGirl worked on her presentation poster for Careers Day tomorrow. I've done my very best to let her lead, with my direction, and she produced a lovely poster on being a meteorologist.

But the pictures were crooked! But a word was misspelled! But she did a drawing that she didn't like in the end so she just scribbled it out! But, but, but!

(Deep cleansing mommy breath.)

But she was happy with it. But she was pleased with her effort and the final result. But she's proud of her work.

And I have to learn better how to be happy with it, too. And to be pleased with her 2nd grade effort and her final result. And to be proud of her work.

It's a real struggle sometimes, as a parent and as a parent by adoption, for me to remember that I am not her and she is not me. I struggle sometimes with letting go of my own expectations appropriate for a 40+ year old professional geek and expectations appropriate for a 7-year old 2nd grader. I'm humbled by the huge growth this little person requires of me. It's good to grow and stretch.

I hope I just don't hyperventilate in the process.

Holding my Breath

On Friday, Big Changes are coming to Mr. Handsome's company, namely, a 12% cut of salaried staff. As of now, his job appears to be relatively safe, thankfully, but I know that at least one of his direct-reports is getting cut.

Mr. Handsome has been very stressed about this, understandably, and last night I found out why his anxiety was so high: if a particular engineer gets cut, there are real concerns about whether or not he'll be able to keep it together or if he'll go postal. He's been known to behave erratically and he has lots of guns.

I was stressed about the potential life-changing events before, but knowing Mr. Handsome's additional concerns has me even more in knots. I told him that he owes it to everyone to make sure the local police are notified that there may be an issue; he couldn't live with himself if he didn't contact the police and something terrible did happen. Mr. Handsome and this particular engineer have worked together for years, most of them with the engineer as my husband's direct report. I'm afraid for him. I'm afraid for the engineer. I'm afraid.

Cyber Stalker

I’ve become a cyber stalker. Not the scary kind, but the kind who just keeps tabs on someone who wouldn’t want tabs kept on them. Not very often, once a month or so.

I’ve sunk so low that I have created a fake Facebook account and say I’m in the same network as AJ’s mom so I can see her rather open Facebook pages. Some questions have been answered for me, like from where Peggy came up with is unusual middle name (one of her FB “sexy friends” has the same name).

Other than that, though, I’ve learned she has had a third child and is possibly pregnant with a fourth (status: “BOY O BOY.... Wat Have I Done!?”) and she refers to AJ as “my stupid ass lil man,” she’s cut off his incredible curls, and considers a bottle of Jim Beam an appropriate de-stresser after a day with her kids. She also has an entire online album of herself flipping the bird. Lovely.

I do get to see photos of him, though. The fact that he smiles in some of them gives me hope that his life isn’t as bad as his grandmother has led me to believe.

Kind of pathetic, I know. Like a scab I can’t stop picking and making it bleed all over again.

Oh my!

My friend the BabyCatcher has me inspired to begin writing again. Well, her and the fact that BabyGirl is back in school and I have some time again.

Riding to school yesterday, my 2nd grader piped up and said wistfully, "I wish we could see Mitzie more." Me too, Sweet Pea, me too.

After writing last year about considering a change in our wills to remove her from the line of guardianship, then her magically appearing (well, dropping off a birthday gift when, unbeknownst to her, we were out for the evening), we haven't seen nor heard from her again. Sitting at the traffic light, I could check BabyGirl's face in the rearview mirror to see if I could get a clue as to her inner thoughts. All I saw was sadness.

"Do you think she's working all the time and that's why she can't see me?"

No, Sweetie, I don't think she's working that much right now, I could answer truthfully since Mitzie's dad told me she'd quit another job. Know what I think it is?

"What?"

I think it still hurts her heart so much that she wasn't able to be your everyday mom that she's afraid of feeling that kind of pain, so she just kind of avoids putting herself into a situation where she won't be able to ignore how much it hurts.

"Huh?"

Remember after we lost AJ and how sad I was for so long? Remember how some days I just cried all the time?

"Yeah. You were really sad. I'm glad that's over!"

It's not really over, though, I've just learned how to live with the loss better. Sometimes, it hurts as much as it did the day he left, sometimes I even forget he was part of our family, sometimes it's just like I've got a little splinter someplace that's a little annoying but not too bad.

"Really?"

And I'm absolutely terrified that we'll run into AJ sometime like we ran into Audrey's dad that day at the grocery market. I'm afraid seeing him would hurt my heart just as much as it did back then. I can understand how Mitzie would be afraid of feeling her pain, and it's got to be much worse since you grew in her and everything. Any of this make sense? It's kind of grown-up stuff...

"Sort of. No."

The important thing, BabyGirl, is to know that she loves you with her whole heart, she loves you and misses you. It's just too hard on her heart right now for her to see you right now. I know this because she's your mother and that's how mom's feel about their babies. We can only pray that in time, she'll find her way to see more of you.

"Uh huh. It's sure a good thing that we have Raoul, isn't it?"

Oh yes, my Love.

Didn't see that one coming

So BabyGirl and I are at the grocery store, picking up a few things for our trip to Baltimore and DC. She's lazing in the main part of the cart and I've got a few things in the childseat. We come around a corner, and a gentleman about my age pulls his cart out of the middle of the aisle. I say not to worry because there's plenty of room in the aisle.

He, an African-American man, then notices BabyGirl's Sisterlocks (http://www.locks4life.com/ that's her on their home page), the amazing solution to all our hair woes, and strikes up a conversation. That he'd ask about them is not unusual because Sisterlocks are relatively new in the midwest and they're gor-ge-ous.

After a second or two, he asks, "Don't I know you?"

Well, yes he knows me. He sat in my living room and asked me to raise his daughter. He held my hand as she was being delivered. He told us he and her mother thought Mr. Handsome and I were the best ones to parent Audrey at this point in their lives, and they really wanted Audrey to have a sister like BabyGirl.

So I answered, "William, it's Mommela." If a really dark man can blanche, he did. BabyGirl wanted to know what was up and I could only say that this was Baby Audrey's daddy. "No, she's Naida."

BabyGirl and I then zoomed for the next aisle whereupon I hauled her out, abandoned the cart, and had a good long cry in the car. I can never go back to that grocery story again. After three and a half years, it still hurts as much as it did the night he called and said they wanted her back.

BIG DISCLAIMER: I fully support his right to parent his own child! I'd never deny him that right and I actively work to safeguard firstparent's rights.

But it still hurts like hell.