I had a dream a few nights ago. I had no money, no means of buying things. I had been given the task of engaging my adopted daughter (who has disowned me) in a conversation.
Because it is a dream, I choose to discuss an array of roasted and cooked chicken that is behind a butcher’s counter.
I try to keep the conversation very neutral, very chicken-focused.
Because when your kid is RAD that is how you learn to roll…even in your subconscious.
I am going to start laying out my memories of life with my adopted children. Like an old woman pulling sweaters from the attic. I need to organize this thing….the life we lived together.
The first thing you should know is the last thing that happened–she cut me off because she suspected I had reported her brother….suspected him of child abuse.
Ironically, as with so many things before, she unleashed her anger on the alleged reporter instead of facing the crime.
The terrible crime.