Part one: in which the stage is set Today was hard. This week was hard. It just felt like one hit after another after another. As soon as I got one thing squared away something else would fall apart and I got whiplash just trying to keep everything in sight. My breaking point came yesterday afternoon. The plumber came over to check out a screaming noise my toilet was making that resembled a colicky newborn (been there, done that, definitely don’t need that shit from my toilet too) and while he was in the middle of telling me that both of my toilets need work, he happened to notice that…

… the mouse will play. Or, in our case, the universe will do everything it can do make my life as hard as possible. Two weeks ago Papa Roo went out of town for five days. During that time the dog got a horrible pooping disease, the Kangaroo puked all over his bed for two consecutive nights, he got double ear infections in both ears, and then the antibiotics made his diapers literally explode. Papa Roo went out of town again on Sunday and seven hours later my grandmother passed away. Two hours after that the Kangaroo colored all over the wall in the hallway and the cat puked on…

I’m really good at being sad. You might be thinking “weird flex, but okay” and you’d be right. Who is proud of the way they handle depression? This girl, that’s who. I’m really good at collapsing into sadness and letting it take over for a little bit, because I know how to get through it and get past it. I’ve been dealing with depression and anxiety since I was a teenager, although it wasn’t until college that I allowed myself to formally admit it and get some help. My preferred method of dealing with it in high school was to be really mean to my family, especially my sister, and…

“Is he your son?” “Yes” “He’s black.” “Yup” “He’s black and you’re white.” “Yup” “Why is he black if you’re white?” My husband and I adopted the Kangaroo, a bi-racial child, out of foster care. His birth mother is a black woman from Ghana and his birth father is a white man from Central Kentucky. Despite his white birth father, the Kangaroo is a black child. The world views him as black, when he looks in the mirror he sees a black child, he will grow up to be a black man. We work hard to help him feel proud of his skin, his beautiful melanin, his tight curly hair,…

When people tell you to start a blog they don’t actually tell you how to do it. They say things like “you’re so funny! You should start a blog!”, which isn’t helpful at all. A blog about what? Parenting? Hah! I’m barely making it from one day to the next! Adopting transracially out of foster care? I don’t think adopting one tiny human makes me any kind of an expert. Infertility? Nah. I barely like to talk about that in my real life, never mind my internet life. Autism? Today my son peed on the floor and watched two hours of Word Party. Who am I to give anyone advice…