Were we really fristers after all?

Apparently we’re good at taking pictures of un-reality. Because the day after Thanksgiving, I walked out of the bathroom to overhear my sister talking to the friend I had brought to Thanksgiving dinner, about how she think I criticize her so much, and how hurtful I am, and that it’s ‘so highschool,’ and I wanted to slam my fist into the door and walk out. Screaming. Crying. I wanted to do it all. Instead I walked back around the corner and put my kid to bed, because parenting duties don’t stop when you overhead gossip going on in the kitchen when they think you’re not listening.

The whole time we were there, my New York born, Seattle, living, friend kept saying things like, “your sister is so nice, she’s just such a nice person,” and honestly I’m sick of that. I’ve been hearing that kind of shit my whole life. My sister, the quintessential cheerleader personality, with all of her baubles and tittering laugh, being compared to my tell-it-like-it-is personality that questions every authority I’ve come across. I’m the older one, the responsible one, the one who doesn’t shamelessly flirt with everyone she meets. The one who came home and studied and didn’t sneak out to party with older boys and questionable friends. And all people who come in contact with her say “she’s so nice.”

I’m tired of feeling like no matter what I do, no matter who I am, that my way of being in the world is wrong. I’m tired of being labelled the ‘difficult,’ one because my personality doesn’t conform to the standard of femininity that my sister embodies. It makes me feel like shit to hear my sister say that I’m basically a terrible person and that she can’t even tell me to my face. Makes me think that she’s just been putting up a happy-happy-joy-joy cheerleader front all this time. And for what? To build a fake relationship with me and have it all go to shit when I overhear her badmouthing me?

Boof says it’s because I have the kind of personality that doesn’t let people come close without dropping their defense mechanisms. That I don’t put up with bullshit and some people don’t like that feature about me. That it’s not about my being being wrong in the world, but rather that it forces them to see how they are wrong in the world, and they must change to interact with me. Whatever it is, it doesn’t feel good. And it makes me want to cut off all relationships, like with my friend, or my sister, to pursue more authentic relationships. Ones that don’t feel like I am a difficult person.

Thanksgiving Re-Cap

My mini-meltdown ended after 45 minutes of sitting in the idling car listening to Macklemore’s The Heist cd on repeat. And angry blogging. Once I identified that I had felt disrespected, I was able to articulate it to my family, and things blew over. My problem is having a hard time identifying my emotions and switch right to raging bitch pissed, rather than calmly being able to articulate what’s really going on. Like I felt disrespected that I was the only one doing parenting duties and everyone else was acting 12, shouting at football games and barking orders.

The rest of our visit was relatively calm, though sleeping on a 167 year old double mattress with egg crate for ‘support’ was less than ideal. Especially with a squirrelly nursling who would pop up, even in the middle of the night, to assess his surroundings. On Friday night we took my dad out for his 60th birthday, and had some yummy Italian food that didn’t sit well with me, but at least we didn’t have any major arguments. And Potamus enjoyed feeding carrots to the horses was scared of the horses, but was obsessed with going out in the pasture with us anyway. Also, hearing him say “football” is adorable, though it sounds a hell of a lot more like ‘butt ball” which makes me laugh, every time.

We’re home now, and trying to recover from being out of my comfort zone for two days (and trying desperately not to think of the return trip in three weeks for ‘Christmas.’ Eek!).

60th birthday dinner for grandpa!

Me & Little Man

he’s really loving the horses (not)

stripes & grass

out for a brisk walk with grammy

feeding the horses some carrots

 

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

My overly tired toddler, who whined for two plus hours on our “over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go,” journey had just fallen asleep. I spent thirty minutes nursing him with my practically empty weaning boobs. He was in that sweet sleep, where he kept reaching for me.

It lasted maybe twenty minutes, but thanks to the shitty acoustics and five non-toddler minded adults (plus Boof who should have fucking known better) the noise woke our sleeping boy and I couldn’t be more pissed. I feel so disrespected. I’m working my ass off to keep my toddler from having a full blown meltdown and they are too self centered to realize that shouting across the house rather than just walking to get whatever they need, is loud and unnecessary. I’m so tired of it, and the drinking hasn’t even started.

Everyone thinks I’m blowing things out of proportion, wondering why I’m so annoyed and that I should just chill out. I want to punch them all in the face. So instead I went for a drive. Now I’m sitting in my high school parking lot with waves of equally shitty memories from a time I was equally misunderstood and disrespected.

Fuck shitty holidays. Fuck pretending to be grateful.

The Difficulty in Attunement- or- I suck at Boundaries

Apparently, I learned in therapy this week, that I really suck at boundaries. Don’t worry, my therapist didn’t actually say that, but the realization that I actually do suck at putting up boundaries, especially with family, was evident by the conversation I was having with her. Somewhere along the line I started to attune to the world around me. And in order to get my needs met, I began to change and shift and mold myself based on the signals I was reading.

Yes, I blame adoption.

But I know that it’s probably much more complicated than living with genetic strangers who didn’t have an “automatic” attunement or attachment to me (or I to them) like I’ve experienced with Potamus. And who knows if my natural attunement toward him is even real or just going to screw him up just as much.

But somewhere later along the line I obviously made an almost-conscious decision to be everything to everybody. And I really think that the things that set the ball in motion for my current angst was the decision to spend our honeymoon travelling to various family member’s houses for Christmas. I was still hemorrhaging from my vagina and I was doing the dishes, with Boof, while our son was passed around like a football. I had failed to set a good boundary. Sure I tried before he was born, but once I was in the moment, like many times, I’ve gritted my teeth and bore it until much time and reflection later I realized: I’m really freaking tired and annoyed.

Next week “the holidays” start. I love Thanksgiving. but imaging the drive over Snoqualmie Pass with my son and our dog in our Subaru to battle other Thanksgiving traffic to spend two days with my family seems exhausting. And yet I also feel obligated. It’s their year after all…we’ve put it off long enough. But Christmas only a month later I know that I am really stretching myself, again, and all I want to do is sleep.

See, we got married on December 20th. Where most people would just leave right away on their honeymoon, we spent three nights away, and then drove to Eastern Washington and then to Idaho on a family Christmas ‘road trip’ to spend the holidays with our respective families. Because we hadn’t ever spent a holiday with each set of our families, even while engaged, we though it’d be “fun” to do. And it was. I enjoyed the time, getting to really mesh with our new in-laws and also get to spend time with my family for my own lovely traditions.

But.

But.

As we’re closely approaching our fifth wedding anniversary, I look back and think how pivotal that decision was to our overall experience relating to our families. While it was fun, and it solidified our experience of the traditions, it also created a dynamic where we knew what it was like to not miss out…nobody had to give anything up…though, to be honest, the rushed dither from here to there and back across the state was exhausting. And it felt like in both places we were really only giving 80%. Instead of saying ‘this year it’s my family, 100%’ it was sorta like we were half-assing everything.

And then Potamus was born….on our anniversary. And now suddenly we’re in this dilemma of celebrating his birthday, our anniversary (my birthday a week before our anniversary) AND Christmas…with both families. I’m exhausted just thinking about it. I’m also exhausted remembering cooking “Christmas dinner” three days postpartum while my parents bickered over who had gotten more time holding the wee one.

So, tell me people, how do you put your and your immediate (children) family first and set boundaries with in-laws and extended family….especially when you also have the “I don’t want to miss out” mentality, too.

Homebody, Recluse, or “I just hate going ‘home’ for the holidays,”?

 

who would want to leave this glorious rocky beach? 🙂

In therapy this week, I talked about the visceral reaction I feel when ever I cross over the mountains and start heading down into my ‘hometown.’ And by hometown I mean the place my parents live, where my sister lives, where I spent 8-12 grade and tried like hell to get out of. There was college, and then 1 year post-India where I lived there, and hated it just as much. And so I rarely go, even though my parents beg me to visit. I grit my teeth and maybe manage a summer trip, for two days, and then there’s “the holidays,” of which this year Thanksgiving AND Christmas fall on the visiting rotation…so this’ll be three trips in a year. I’m not looking forward to it.

Eastern Washington feels like hell to me. But my therapist said a few things that stood out, like when she asked if I was  “homebody,” and then mentioned that it sounded like I was replaying an old story in my visits ‘home’ for the holidays (or any other time of year, for that matter). And it got me thinking…am I a homebody? I sure drag my feet when it comes to visiting my in-law’s cabin 6 hours away for Christmas, because it’s snowy and trapped feeling with 8 people in a house all sleeping on hide-a-beds and playing Trivial Pursuit into the wee hours of the morning. Sure I like routine, but who doesn’t?

And yet, I’m jumping at the chance to visit one of my college buds in Albuquerque in January. And maybe flying to New York solo in May for a conference. I know my anxiety tends to fill me pre-event, but I find that I’m actually pretty chill when I visit friends and do other adventurous type things. Sure I used to joke about becoming a Montana recluse, but for the most part I’m a pretty social introvert who likes doing things, but I also like routine. What I hate is “going home.” Why? Because my home is right here, dammit!

So I realized, with the help of my therapist, that I have, indeed, been playing out an old story. The time when I was 13 and my family “took a vote,” to move across the mountains to a new place called Eastern Washington. The vote that wasn’t fair, because it put me in the position of choosing to stay, in Seattle, with a depressed mom and a dad we never saw (because he had worked in Eastern Washington for a year already, commuting home on the weekends), and a role of surrogate mom, taking care of my younger siblings OR move to a place I didn’t know in hopes that our family could be together again. Of course I chose the latter, because the weight of raising my siblings and dealing with my mother’s sadness was too heavy for my young perfectionist shoulders. And yet, the move, to a new place, with new rules and an equally depressed mother (since she, too, was leaving her home, where she was raised) did nothing for me.

I entered 8th grade and adolescence with a dark cloud hanging above me. My anxiety and depression flared up, but instead of recognizing it for what it was, I was labelled angry and withdrawn. Who wouldn’t be? They had left their home, their friends, the comfort of the evergreen trees and the known smells of wet bark after it rains. And now, as an adult, I am back, in the place I’ve known to be home, in my heart, since I was born. Why would I ever want to leave? Why would I choose, willingly, to make that drive again, across the mountains and into the valley of despair? But, like my therapist said, the adult Self can say, “this is for 2 days. this is not home, and isn’t home, you can return home in 2 days. you are choosing to visit, not to stay.” But that trapped, clawing claustrophobia of a teenage sense of dread, like being sent to juvey or exile, is still living in me whenever I even think of visiting. I do it, out of obligation, but the question, “why don’t you and Boof move back home?” puts me in defense mode. I always angrily say, “we are home. Seattle IS HOME.” But it falls on deaf ears.

Maybe I am a homebody. Maybe I am tied to Seattle in a way I can’t explain and I’m working to heal the trauma of having had to leave in those formational years. I’ve been back for 7, and adding up all the time I lived here as a child/pre-teen plus my adult years, it far outweighs those blip-on-the-radar moments of highschool. And yet I feel scarred and changed by the whole ordeal, and never want to go back. But I will go back. Because Thanksgiving happens in two weeks. Are you ready?

Thanksgiving Recap-In Photos

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving went off without a hitch. My attitude was mostly gratefully and only slightly cynical and bitter. My adoptive brother and his daughter were able to come down to Seattle, which was nice, though the babies were both overly tired and crabby for portions of the day. They took fitful naps, and Potamus woke up crying because Ms. A’s laugh sounded like a dying pterodactyl. The food was excellent, and everyone left feeling overly stuffed on raspberry jello, rolls, sweet potatoes and my famous pecan pie. There appeared to be little jealousy between the grandparents, which was lovely to see, though who knows what each of them were thinking.

The best news for Boof and I was that Potamus was overly stimulated for the past X amount of weeks and we got a long night sleep. I was in bed for 15 hours, which means that I sacrified quantity for quality, since Potamus was up every 2. But still, I’ll take it. And for that, I’m grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving.

May you eat with as much happy abandon as my sweet baby.

11 Months, Thanksgiving Prep, and Birthday Invitations

Yesterday Potamus turned 11 months. No other time in his life is he going to be celebrated every month, so I like to go all-out. And by that, I mean, I sat on the couch and snapped a few pictures of him doing his thing…which, predictably, included the new skill of walking with his walker toy.

Yeah, proud mama right here! My baby’s walking! So what if he needs a walker, there are plenty of grown-ass adults that need walkers!

Another new skill is: being completely obsessed with my writing while on the laptop. Proof:

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Today my adoptive parents trek across Snoqualmie Pass to begin Thanksgiving prep. I’m mostly excited about spending time with them, making the pecan pie and the raspberry jello, and showing off Potamus’s new walking pasttime. I am excited for family time and rolls and drinking 6 bottles of sparkling cider.

I am nervous about having to navigate the whole jealousy issue. And I’m nervous about trying to placate my crazy ex-sister-in-law as she drops off her daughter for my adoptive brother’s custody holiday. She’s nuts, and I dislike having to deal with her.

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Yesterday I approved Boof’s invitation wording for our combined 30 & 1 birthday party in December. It was so sweet, how he put a picture of me and Potamus with the wording:

“Come Celebrate 30 & 1 with Mother and Son”

Narrowing the guest list down to friends was the easy part. But the whole family thing gets trickier. And as an adoptee, I tend to go between the opposite extremes of trying to please everybody or saying “screw it” and doing my own thing. But with a certain limit to how many people will fit into the rented room.
My challenge isn’t my biological dad, he and his family are a given.

My adoptive parents are going to be out of town and so we are doing a belated birthday bash right before Christmas.

It’s my biological mom’s side of the family that I’m worried about. Mostly because her brain is fried by all the years of drugs and alchol (not even to mention, she still might be using). And her parents are sweet, but overbearing and, how can I say it nicely…weird. But my half-siblings on that side are pretty cool, I mostly jive with my brother, but if I were to just invite him, or just invite the two of them, then are feelings going to be hurt. But most importantly, I have an excellent connection on-line with my great-uncle. He and I seem to just be totally simpatico, and he lives in Canada and might be down in time for the birthday, but would the world go all cattywampus if I invited him, but not his brother (my grandpa)?

I want to be true to myself and just invite my biological half-siblings and my paternal great-uncle. But I’m afraid of the ramifications.

And this is why I wasn’t ready to be in reunion at 18. People used to ask me about when I wanted to meet my biological family, but I always put it off saying “well, I’m in college, and it’s already complicated enough.” Gee whiz, at 30 I still don’t have it figured out.

Jealous Mothers

I think we need to invent a specific word to describe the jealousy of mothers. Or maybe more accurately, the jealousy of mothers with grandchildren. Because I am about ready to pop my mom and my mother-in-law in the face if they don’t get their shit figured out. I mean, seriously, their mutual jealousy is driving me batshit crazy.

It started a few weeks ago, when I was explaining to my mom why we were looking at non-home daycares, stating, “Potamus has a grandma, and a mom and dad, to watch him” but before I could even finish the sentence she inserted, “he has another grandma, too.”

face, meet palm.

Seriously? Yes mom, I know he has “two” grandmas (though if we are really being honest, he has FOUR grandmas since I am adopted, but I let that part slide), but if you would have let me finish the sentence it was about primary caregivers. I’m sorry that she made the choice to stay living 25o miles away and my mother-in-law is right down the street, but I can’t do anything about that.

THEN, my second sister-in-law got married and my mom said, ‘I don’t know, is MB (my mother-in-law) stressed, because I tried to say “hi” to her and she didn’t respond, but she gave your dad a hug.”

Seriously.

WTF.

My mother-in-law is the mom of the bride, probably not in the best frame of mind to be chit-chatting and worrying about my mom’s feelings on the matter. But, to try and nip that nonsense in the bud, Boof had a wee chat with his mom about making extra sure that my mom feels included in stuff.

BUT THEN, after the wedding shenanigans were through, MB comes to me and says, “I’m not bothered by it, but your dad says that your mom is going by grammy, so I guess I will go by Grandma Lastname.”
(which is the most martyeriest thing she could say, because she originally told us she HATED that name.)

Seriously. It’s like being in freaking junior high, and I have less patience now for that kind of drama. Who the fuck cares if Potamus calls you BOTH grammy? Why does it matter? Why all the jealousy and insecurity?

AND THEN, in reference to my 30th and Potamus’s 1st birthday party in my hometown, my mom made a snide remark about “I hope it’s okay we just to a family dinner. That’s how we do it,” which was clearly referencing my in-laws (who have more money) who go out to eat a lot. GAH! I’m about to pull my hair out.

On my mom’s end, it seriously feels like she is having those child-feelings that I had because of adoption. It feels like she now understands what it is like to worry that someone (me) is going to leave and not think of her as family anymore. But I don’t know what the deal is with my mother-in-law, but at this rate I am getting VERY annoyed about the prospect of having to deal with it all on Thanksgiving. I want them to just communicate, work it out, and hell, maybe even let Potamus pick his own name for you all. My pick, right now,  is Beavis and Butthead.