Karen's Journey

I am the mother of a black child. A child who some people in our larger culture describe with a term that dates back to the slave days. I was off-grid when this Paula Deen thing broke, so I haven't heard or read everything about the story. But this I know. She used an inappropriate term to refer to a person of color and then initially appeared unapologetic, stating something along the lines of "it's not up to me to determine what might or might not offend someone." Let's be clear. The N-word is offensive. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to determine or not determine that. Her comments and celebrity keep racism alive. The only way to eliminate the culture of privilege that Paula Deen seems to be so clueless about is to bring it into the light and name it, even at the risk of alienating others. I owe this to my son. So here goes: She is NOT deserving of "support." Our circle of friends and family, nuclear and extended, should be a safe space ...

Dysregulation is: Walking in repetitive circles (it used to be spinning in place). The Popeye face. That Look in his eyes. No one else sees it, but it screams "Brain out of control," to me. Running away from Mommy hugs. Deliberately showing affection appropriate for Mommy to the bigger-than-Mommy sisters. Refusing to say "I love you" as he leaves for school and then asking when he gets home if that hurt my feelings. Disrespectful talk -- such as placing three (count 'em, three) water bottles on the counter and saying, "Happy washing," as he walks away. Calling me by my given name instead of "Mom" or "Mommy." Wanting to write Daddy's given name on his Father's Day card instead of "Dad" or "Daddy." Asking nonsense questions like, "Can I go wading in that swamp?" and then following up my "No" answer with an even more nonsensical, "Why?" Note: he's not really looki...

I try to give T affirmations every night. It's the one therapeutic parenting technique I'm pretty good at. "You are a very good boy." Or, "You're a great kid!" Or, "You are my best heart." I stole that one from him. Last night I said, "You are my best boy." "You are my best mommy," he whispered back. Words like those make me cringe inside. "What about your mommy in Ethiopia?" I think. "How can I be your best mommy when I am your Plan B? When you have a mommy in Ethiopia (we think) who loves you and cared for you and did the best she could for you and screamed when they took you away? "I am the mommy you got stuck with, not the mommy who gave you life and who you loved with all your heart for your first four years, but you don't think much about now because when you do it makes you sad and angry -- and sad and angry makes you scared and scared means you might not survive -- so you just ...

On the way home from swimming lessons, T mentioned he'd seen someone on the playground who used to go to his old daycare. I asked him if it was Walking on Tables, and he said no. He then asked me, "Is Walking on Tables older than me?" "No," I said, unaware of the trap that was being set for me. "You two are the same age." "But Walking on Tables's birthday is January 5th!" he responded, clearly pleased with having "caught" me giving a "wrong" answer. I explained that the two of them are in the same grade, are both seven years old, and therefore are the same age. And that now I understood that his question was not a real question.  Brain drain has indeed made its return in this house. Sometimes he doesn't even finish asking one question before starting in on the next -- he is so intent on just asking questions for asking's sake. We've taken to announcing, "No more questions until we a...

A family in the Ethiopian adoption community recently lost their toddler, who'd been home with them for a year, to a tragic parking lot accident. She apparently got herself unbuckled out of her car seat and the vehicle door opened before her father was able to get out of his seat and come around to get her. She ran across the parking lot, eager to see her brothers playing lacrosse -- and right into the side of an oncoming car. And I think "There but for the grace of God...." remembering all our parking lot/carseat/doorlock battles. Except that I'm agnostic at best, and this family is devoutly Christian. So really, God's turned off  his grace for this family but had it turned on for us? No, it was not by God's grace that this wasn't our story; we just got stupidly lucky. Reading that family story, I could see T sitting in the park's parking lot, stubbornly refusing to get up, while cars were pulling in and backing out all around us. I could see it a...

Sandy Hook hit me hard. T was six -- almost seven -- on that day, in first grade -- just like the children who were mowed down there. The idea that I could send my child off to school and never see him -- or any of his classmates -- again just rocked me to the core. I struggled with my own internal aftermath for months. At party after party of children turning seven, I would look around and think, "This could have been them. Someone could have walked into their classroom, looked into these innocent eyes, and just callously blown them away." I just kept seeing the innocence turning to terror in the eyes of the Newtown children as they watched the hail of bullets coming their way. I realized on April 14th that I have been going to birthday parties recently and not thinking those thoughts. I've been coming out of the woods on that one. And then came April 15th's running of the Boston Marathon. I am a runner. I  have never run a marathon because my body has failed m...

Recently we received some new photos of T's family. It's been two years since the last time we got photos, and the children have all grown so much. The baby is now the age T was when T came home, and is the spitting image of T. I want to reach back through time and hug my little four-year-old boy so much, knowing now what I didn't know then. I was so excited to have new photos. They arrived while T was at school. When he got off the bus, I told him to come inside -- I had a surprise for him. "A new Skylanders Giant?" he asked. Okay, not that kind of surprise. I knew right away that the photos were going to pale in comparison. But I opened my email and showed him the photos. He proclaimed that the woman in the photo was not his mother, marveled at how small the cow looked, and then walked away. "How do you feel about seeing these photos?" I asked. He shrugged. I persisted. "Does it make you happy to see your family, or sad, or maybe both?...